Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  Back at home, Asher and I settled onto our dining couches as Father lifted the linen napkins from the challah loaves and recited the blessing: “Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha-olam hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.” Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who brings forth bread from the earth.

  “Amein,” Asher and I chorused.

  The slaves brought in our meal as we passed the loaves and broke off pieces of bread.

  “Your Latin teacher sent word—he is sorry he could not come for dinner,” Father said as he reclined on his couch. “He will come for your lesson on the first day of the week.”

  I declined the bowl of stewed pigeon with mulberries and reached for the salad instead. “I shall look forward to it, Father.”

  “Latin is easy,” Asher said. “I am translating Homer’s Odyssey as part of my lessons. Father says my Latin translation is very close to the original text.”

  “Good for you.” My words dripped with sarcasm, a tone Father did not miss.

  “Shalom, you two. I will not have you arguing on Shabbat.”

  I fingered a bowl of figs, then selected one and tore at the fibrous exterior with my teeth.

  “How is the princess?” Father asked. “Has she been able to spend much time with her father since he returned?”

  “Not much,” I said, dropping the fig. “She wants to see him, but he is always surrounded by Romans.”

  “Urbi is a good student,” Father said, dipping his fingers into the pigeon stew. “Though she will never be sought for her beauty, her charming personality more than compensates. None of the other royal children are as bright, and none of them speak as well. She even outshines her brothers, though they are still too young to demonstrate their full potential. One can only hope they will be given a chance to excel before—”

  I lifted my head, silently reminding him that he had ventured dangerously close to a forbidden subject. Even at home, one did not talk about the Ptolemies’ tendency to murder each other.

  Mindful of the servants, I lowered my voice. “We should not follow these thoughts further.”

  Father’s face flushed. “Indeed.”

  “I saw the king today,” Asher remarked, grinning. “He was riding with an officer of the Roman Cavalry.”

  Father spat out a tiny bone. “Did this soldier have a name?”

  “They call him Mark Antony. They say he personally commanded the troops who brought the king back from Rome.”

  I tilted my head, interested only because the story concerned Urbi. When Urbi’s father had returned to Alexandria, one of his first acts had been to arrange a series of executions—of Berenice, her husband, and any high officials who supported his rebellious daughter’s brief reign. Soldiers loyal to Berenice put up a brief fight, but the Roman legionaries made short work of them.

  I had not yet found the courage to ask Urbi how she felt about the latest development in her family drama. She did not often speak about her siblings, and I did not dare question her about secrets she had closeted away. I was simply grateful that her father’s absence seemed to compel her to seek me out. Perhaps I had already begun to bless her life.

  Only once had Urbi touched on the subject of her executed sister. One day, as we strolled through the garden, she gripped my hand and squeezed it. “I am glad my father is home, for I love him dearly,” she said, her tone deep with ferocity. “I liked my sister, but I shall not weep for Berenice. She chose a treacherous path, and her own actions sealed her fate.”

  I had nodded numbly, and only later did I fully understand what had happened. With that came the realization that after Berenice’s death, Urbi stood first in line to inherit the throne of Egypt. My best friend had gone from lifelong princess to prospective queen, and I knew next to nothing about the responsibilities that awaited a ruler.

  “Asher.” Father’s voice broke into my thoughts. “How goes your Torah study?”

  My brother sucked at the inside of his cheek for a minute, his brows working. “It is . . . interesting.”

  “How so?”

  Asher wiped his hand on his napkin and leaned forward on the table. “In the Torah, HaShem says He will come down upon Mount Sinai in the sight of all the people.”

  Father nodded. “And?”

  “And Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy of the elders went up and saw the God of Israel . . . as they were eating and drinking.”

  Father nodded again. “As it is written.”

  “But how could they see Him, since HaShem is spirit? And does not the Torah say that Moses was not allowed to see HaShem, but only His reflected glory?”

  Father smiled and stroked his beard. “What do the other Torah students say?”

  Asher pressed his hands to the table, eager to explain. “Some say the writing is a metaphor, not meant to be interpreted literally.”

  Father arched a brow. “Continue.”

  “And others say that this is an occasion when HaShem cloaked himself in flesh, just as He did when he visited Abraham with two angels. That day, Adonai ate and drank with Abraham, so He must have appeared in some sort of body.”

  Father’s smile deepened. “So it would seem.”

  “So then . . .” Asher tilted his brow and gave Father an uncertain look. “Someone suggested that if God was able to appear in a body, it must not need certain things.”

  “Such as?”

  “Things that protect the body . . . like fingernails.”

  I laughed aloud. Father gave me a stern look, then directed his attention back to Asher. “Someone thinks HaShem has no fingernails?”

  “In his physical form,” Asher added. “Half of us think so.” He tilted his head. “Why would He need to protect His fingers when He controls the universe? The other half believes that HaShem would want to look like His creation, so he would have fingernails, toenails, and sweat.”

  “Sweat.” A corner of Father’s mouth twisted upward. “In which group do you belong, Asher?”

  Asher blew out a breath. “Fingernails.”

  “And why?”

  “Because I think He would want to look like us. Abraham did not recognize Him at first, right? So He must have looked like an ordinary man, at least at first glance.”

  Father nodded slowly and studied his fingers as if seeing them for the first time. “One of HaShem’s greatest gifts is the ability to reason,” he finally said, lowering his hand. “But do not try to reason your way to understanding Adonai, for nothing is impossible with Him.”

  My stomach tightened when he turned to me. “Chava?”

  “Father?”

  “Tonight I met a young man at the synagogue, a wheat exporter. He inquired about you.”

  I swallowed hard. “About me?”

  “Apparently,” Father went on, the candles tossing his shadow onto the walls and ceiling, “some weeks ago he saw you strolling with your slave on the Canopic Way. He made inquiries, and his inquiries led him to our house.”

  I lowered my gaze. I might have been walking with Urbi, not Nuru, because my best friend loved to sneak out of the palace to mingle with ordinary people. But Father did not need to know that.

  I glanced at Asher, who was staring at Father with unabashed curiosity. “Why would anyone ask about her?”

  Father gave my brother a reproachful look. “Your sister is beautiful, and every young man—including you—needs a devout wife. He saw Chava, and he liked her.”

  I could no longer remain silent. “He doesn’t even know me!”

  “That can easily be remedied.” Father smiled. “We could ask him to dinner. Or I could invite him to walk with us, or perhaps we could visit the library together.”

  I drew a deep breath, knowing that the time had come. I had carried my secret for months, but it was time Father knew the truth. “I am sorry, Father, but I am not going to marry. HaShem has a different purpose for me.”

  For a moment, Father’s expression did not change, then my words fell into place. He stared unti
l his eyes appeared to be in danger of dropping out of his face. “What did you say?”

  “Father . . .” I leaned forward and pressed my hands together. “I have wanted to tell you this for some time, but I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me. But why shouldn’t you? You yourself taught me about how HaShem speaks to us.”

  Father showed his teeth in an expression that was not a smile. “Go on.”

  “One night, during the lighting of the Shabbat candles, HaShem spoke to me. He said my friendship with the queen was in His hands, that I would be with her on her happiest day and her last, and that I would know myself and bless her. You see? That’s why I cannot marry. I have always felt I was meant to be with her always, perhaps to be one of Urbi’s attendants—”

  “The girl is not a queen.”

  “She wasn’t when HaShem spoke to me, but one day she will be. And she will need a trustworthy friend by her side.”

  Father blinked. “If HaShem wanted such a thing for you, He would speak to me, your father. And I have heard nothing from HaShem, except that a man should leave his mother and father and cleave to his wife. So it is time for you to find a husband.”

  “I do not want to marry!”

  “You are fourteen, the age when a girl should be betrothed. I have not pressured you because I wanted you to continue your lessons. But you are a daughter of Israel, and you are old enough to find your husband and raise a family. If you marry Lavan or Japheth—”

  “Japheth? The Latin teacher who did not come for dinner?”

  “And what is wrong with marrying a teacher?” Father shook his head. “If you married him, you would have no worries. You would live in a nice home, you would never be hungry, and you could travel the world with your husband. You could visit Judea and worship in Jerusalem—”

  I covered my face as understanding swamped me. My father always spoke of Jerusalem with an almost palpable longing, and apparently he thought Asher and I should long for Jerusalem, as well. Why should we? Why should anyone want to visit that dusty, blood-drenched city, especially when we had a Temple in Leontopolis, a perfectly fine Temple that had not been defiled by Syrians or Greeks or pretenders to the priesthood. . . .

  Father’s eagerness to get me out of the house hurt, but far more hurtful was his unwillingness to believe that HaShem had spoken to me. Why wouldn’t He speak to a girl? Were women so far beneath men that Adonai had no use for them? Yet HaShem had worked through the little slave girl when He healed Naaman, the heathen with leprosy. And Adonai had used Deborah and Yael to kill an enemy of Israel.

  “Excuse me—” I gulped back a sob—“but I must obey HaShem. And I am no longer hungry.”

  I dipped my head in a token nod of respect, then fled the room.

  Chapter Four

  Four years passed—four inundations, four seasons of planting, reaping, and harvest. The friendship between Urbi and I grew stronger, for we were no longer children, but young women, with all the energy and passion of those who are old enough to taste independence, yet young enough not to be burdened with responsibilities.

  My father and I had established a temporary peace. Though he often made me feel like a loaf of bread that grew less desirable with every passing day, what could he say? He had introduced me to Urbi and allowed us to be together since our earliest years. He had told me that HaShem spoke to His people, so how could he deny what I had heard?

  Father allowed me to live as I always had, although I knew his deepest prayer was that one day I would realize a yearning for something I would never find in the palace.

  But there I found everything I could ever want.

  Urbi and I made an odd pair in those days. Our tutors frequently commented on her intelligence and my beauty, never realizing that their words seemed to imply I was dull and Urbi plain. Nothing could be further from the truth. I was, after all, a scholar’s daughter, and so learning came naturally to me. And while Urbi had no trouble passing as a plain slave when in disguise, when adorned in her finery, she was as striking a woman as I had ever seen.

  “What does it matter what people think?” we asked each other. “Together, do we not make a perfect pair?”

  Urbi’s father insisted she learn about the Egypt that lay outside Alexandria, so together we studied the pharaohs, the gods, and the people who had created a most unique kingdom. We learned that because of the annual flood, Egypt was the most fertile and unique land in the world. Elsewhere, rivers flowed north to south, while the life-giving Nile flowed south to north. In other lands farmers tilled the land before they planted; in Egypt, farmers planted before they tilled. Egyptian men stayed home to weave while women sold goods at the market; but other men went to market and their women stayed home. “In Greece,” one tutor added, “women do not leave the house at all, while in Rome, women are considered weak and feeble-minded. But in Egypt, women conduct business, sell property, and raise families.”

  Urbi and I dismissed the rest of the world and considered Egypt the only land fit for human habitation. And Alexandria, we believed, was the most glorious city in existence.

  “Of course, my tutor Polyphemus prefers Athens,” Urbi said, laughing as she threaded her arm through mine one afternoon. “But he is Greek, and we Greeks are often blind to common sense.”

  I laughed and led her toward the skiff that would take us to Antirhodos Island, home to the building that held her new royal apartments. “Do you think we are blind to truth?” I asked. “We have our loyalties—to each other, and to our fathers. Sometimes I wonder if my attachments have caused me to judge other men and ideas unfairly.”

  “Ah, Chava, you are becoming philosophical with age. You never used to think of anything but pleasure.”

  “I am older now. And I have been studying philosophy for the past several months.”

  “It is the Greek influence—and believe me, I know it well. You should go back to reading about your Hebrew patriarchs. They gave your thoughts a deliciously different flavor.”

  I shrugged her words away, though her suggestion made me uneasy. “I have always thought you and I were more similar than different. We have spent so much time together that we—”

  “We could be joined at the hip, but you and I will always be different.”

  I stopped, stunned and surprised by her comment.

  Urbi must have seen the dismay on my face. “Chava, please understand that I am grateful for our differences. What good would you be if you only told me what I wanted to hear? As it is, I can make no decisions without your discerning advice.” She patted my hand, then stepped away and gestured to a slave near the dock. “You! Bring us fruit, bread, and cheese. At once.”

  As the man hurried away to do her bidding, I walked to the skiff, scattering a flock of ibises before dropping onto a pile of linen pillows near the bow. I inhaled a deep breath of sea air and pointed to a man approaching over the dock. “Is that one of your tutors?”

  Urbi squinted. “That one teaches Troglodyte, a language that sounds like the screeching of bats.” She sank onto pillows near me, then reached out to finger a fallen braid at my neck. “Is this a new style? My brothers seemed quite entranced with it.”

  I groaned, arranging the braid back into place. “I allowed Nuru to experiment. Yesterday I saw a woman on the street with hair styled something like this. She looked Roman.”

  “If it is from Rome . . . must it be better than what we have in Alexandria?” Urbi wore an inward look, as if she had asked the question of herself.

  Any mention of Rome was apt to elicit a reflective response from her. I had learned that the people of Alexandria had forced her father from the city in our younger years because he overtaxed them to repay the Romans who sanctioned his kingship. Without the support of his people or his treasury, Auletes had been forced to beg influential Roman senators for money and support. Urbi was closer to the king than any of the royal children, and the thought of her proud father begging was enough to spark a fire in her eyes.

  I left her
question unanswered and stood when the tutor approached and knelt on the dock.

  “I should leave you,” I told her. “My Latin teacher will soon be at the house.”

  Urbi laughed. “You have not yet mastered that tongue?”

  “My ear is not as quick as yours. Japheth keeps telling me I need more practice.”

  She gave me a sly smile. “Perhaps he is more concerned with marrying than teaching you.”

  “I doubt it—not when there are so many younger girls available. But Father insists that I speak to Japheth in Hebrew, then he complains that my Hebrew isn’t good enough to be understood in Jerusalem.”

  “Are you planning a visit?”

  “Not me. But Father dreams of it.”

  “Fathers.” Urbi lifted a brow, then smiled. “Would you ever want to live outside Alexandria?” Honest curiosity flickered in her eyes.

  I considered my answer. If I expressed even a slight desire to see some other part of the world, my impulsive friend might order a caravan or a ship to take us straightaway.

  “I do not want to go anywhere.” I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Wherever you are, blood of my blood, there am I as well.”

  Feeling restless after the Sabbath, on the first day of the week I ordered Nuru to put on her sandals and accompany me on a walk. We crossed the colonnaded loggia outside our home, then zigzagged through the Jewish Quarter until we reached the Canopic Way, the broad avenue that transected the carefully designed city of Alexandria.

  I inhaled deeply as the morning sun warmed my face. In terms of freedom, I was more fortunate than my best friend. Though Urbi and I both loved to explore the city, she could not wander as easily as I. On several occasions we had dressed her in a simple slave’s tunic and a plain cloak so we could walk among the ordinary people and breathe in the scents of burning sacrifices at the temples, the stink of dead fish at the docks, and the acrid smell of dyes at the weaver’s establishment. Not only did we enjoy observing the city’s industry, we were also free to choose among dozens of entertainments—the bathhouse, library, museum, gymnasium, and over four hundred theaters. Actors and mimes who could not find work performed on the street, entertaining passersby before they held out gloved hands and hoped for a bronze coin or two.