Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  After dinner, he would always ask, “Did you enjoy Yosef’s company?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Hasn’t he a fine grasp of Dani’el’s writings?”

  “Very fine.”

  “A shame that he has not found himself a wife. Yet he has no desire to remain without one . . .”

  At that point, I would quietly excuse myself and go to my room.

  Why couldn’t my father understand that I did not need to be concerned about my future? Why should I marry and subject myself to a man when my destiny lay with Cleopatra? Every day I saw the long scar on my palm, evidence of my commitment to her. Blood of my blood, heart of my heart. Urbi and I would always be part of each other.

  As the sun began to sink toward the lighthouse, I draped my himation over my hair and shoulders and walked with our doorman to the gate at the royal dock. Several people stood there, all of them dressed in their best, but I assumed they were attending a function arranged by the boy king. His advisors were not at all shy about parading themselves before the public.

  I walked up to the gate and searched for Acis, but the guards were not the friendly men who had been stationed at that post a year ago. They were Roman soldiers, and they did not know me.

  “I am Chava, a friend of the queen’s,” I said. “She is expecting me.”

  The stern-faced guard who seemed to be in charge pulled out a parchment and checked the scrawling on the page. “You are having dinner with the queen?”

  “Yes.” I smiled in an overflow of relief. “My name is Chava, daughter of Daniel the scholar.”

  “Let her pass.”

  I went down to the docks and got into a boat, where a pair of slaves rowed me to the island palace. More than a dozen blazing torches lit the path, pushing at the darkness as I stepped onto the royal dock and walked between the granite pillars. No guards stood at the palace door, but when I turned toward the hallway that led to Cleopatra’s private chambers, a slave pointed me in a different direction.

  “Is the queen not dining in her chamber?” I asked.

  “The queen dines in the great hall,” he replied.

  I sighed but kept walking until I reached a set of tall double doors. The slave opened them and allowed me access to the great hall.

  A heavy scent of roses rolled over me the moment I crossed the threshold. The intricate mosaics that covered the floor in this luxurious chamber had been blanketed with several inches of rose petals, their fragrance almost overpowering as I waded through them. Braided garlands of roses swayed between the soaring columns supporting the painted ceiling, and rose oil sparkled in the perfumed lamps on the walls. In one corner, musicians played stringed instruments and patted small drums, enlivening the atmosphere with a cheerful melody. A trio of dancing girls swirled in the center of the chamber.

  Dining couches, three per group, bracketed small tables, leaving the fourth side open for servants. The walls had been lined with the U-shaped seating arrangements, and a quick glance revealed that more than one hundred guests had been invited to dine in the hall.

  My heart sank with disappointment. I had been hoping—indeed, I had been counting on—a private, relaxed conversation with my best friend, but this was not the setting for an intimate dinner. Would I have to share Urbi with dozens of others? The room had already filled with people—Jewish merchants, Egyptian priests, husbands and wives from Alexandria’s first families. All of the other guests were older than Urbi and I, and they would not want to talk about the things I wanted to share.

  When a servant saw me standing alone, he gestured to an empty couch. I walked over and sank onto the embroidered cushions, then leaned over and took a crusty loaf of bread from a basket. The table next to my couch had been set with gold dishes and jewel-encrusted tumblers. A silver platter held individual meat pies molded into the shape of swans, while a gold-veined pitcher held a ruby-colored wine.

  “Welcome to the queen’s dinner,” I told myself. As others joined my group, I returned their greetings with an unenthusiastic smile.

  I ate silently, eating whatever was offered and speaking to no one. Why did Urbi invite me to this event? She knew I did not care for politics, nor did I have anything in common with the silk merchant who kept threatening to tickle my feet. The Egyptian priest across from me stared as if I were some species of rare insect, and the silk merchant’s wife frowned every time I lifted my cup for more wine. I had never been more uncomfortable, and I made up my mind to tell Urbi so . . . whenever I saw her again.

  I had just sampled a pomegranate-flavored stew when silence settled over the room, an absence of sound that had an almost physical density. I turned toward the head of the hall and saw Cleopatra step through a diaphanous curtain. Like the others, I gasped, for she had never looked more like a queen. She wore a simple white chiton with her hair held back with a white ribbon, the mark of a Ptolemy ruler. Over the tunic she wore a translucent mantle that shimmered in the lamplight. Long ropes of pearls dangled over her chest, and jeweled sandals graced her feet. She smiled around the room, then reclined on her couch, propping an elbow on the upholstered arm. Slaves appeared at her side, offering food and drink, but my friend only nibbled at the delicacies as she scanned the crowd.

  I watched her like a sentinel. Though she nodded pleasantly at her guests, I thought I noticed a shadow behind her eyes and a hesitation in her smile. Why? She had enjoyed a successful victory tour. By all reports, she had been enthusiastically accepted by the Egyptians. So why did she appear less than perfectly happy?

  A young man—Alexandrian, by the look of him—perched on the edge of my couch. “See how well she looks,” he said, gesturing to the queen. “Have you ever seen her look better?”

  I narrowed my eyes to see if I had missed something. “She has looked happier,” I said, measuring my words, “but at least she appears relieved to be home.”

  The young man laughed, his beer-scented breath fanning my face. Clearly he had been in his cups long before arriving at the palace. The fragrance of roses was supposed to prevent intoxication, but this young man had arrived too late for the aromatic petals to do their work.

  “Excuse me,” I told him and pointed to a pretty young woman on the far side of the room. “But that girl keeps staring at you.”

  He blinked, thrust his face forward in concentration, and then stood to investigate the poor girl across the hall.

  I blew out a breath, grateful to see him go.

  I nibbled on a honey cake as the musicians played, the dancers twirled, and the servants walked among us with enough food to feed each guest for a week. A few people walked over to bow before the queen, and one or two were daring enough to speak to her. I leaned forward, hoping to pick up a word or two of their conversation, but the noise and the distance made it impossible to eavesdrop.

  Should I go to her? Something in me insisted that this was not the place for our first meeting in over a year. We were close friends, but one did not station close friends across a crowded room. On the other hand, perhaps she had to observe some ritual or protocol I knew nothing about. Perhaps she had good reasons for not inviting me to a personal meeting, and if I did not approach her, I might hurt her as badly as she had already hurt me.

  Finally I stood, walked to the queen’s couch, and made a proper formal bow. When I straightened, Cleopatra smiled with something of her former warmth in her eyes. “Chava,” she said, inclining her head in a regal gesture. She sighed. “How I have missed you.”

  “And I you.” I attempted to match her smile in formality, then gave up and spilled the words in my heart: “Alexandria has been unreasonably boring since you left. I have been utterly lonely without you.”

  “But now I am home.” She sat upright, and for an instant I thought she might invite me to sit by her side.

  She did not. “How are your father and brother?”

  “They are well.”

  “Has your father announced your betrothal yet?”

  “No, but he ke
eps trying. The latest candidate is a scholar named Yosef.”

  “Is he handsome?”

  I smiled. “He is not unattractive. And you—how do you find marriage to Omari?”

  She lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “It is a marriage in name only. He spends all his time with Pothinus, Achillas, and Theodotus. Fortunately, they keep the boy occupied while I attend to the work.”

  “Are you terribly busy? I had hoped—”

  “Egypt never rests,” she interrupted. “The Nile did not rise this year, so the land did not flood. The crops will not grow, and our people will go hungry. The priests are already complaining of shortages that prevent them from conducting their usual rituals. Robbers haunt the highways and waterways. The people will believe the gods have turned against me if the situation does not improve.”

  I blinked, stunned by the onslaught of information. “But surely they know that only a god can control the weather—”

  “You forget,” she said. “In Egypt, the king and queen are gods.”

  I stared at her as the concept twirled in my head. “They truly believe that? I thought it was tradition.”

  “Chava”—her tone did not sound pleasant—“read your history. Ask your father to explain it to you.”

  Her tone, which had been warm, chilled slightly, and the look she gave me brimmed with reproach. I lifted my chin, confused by her attitude, and only a reflexive respect for authority allowed me to step back and bow my head. “By your leave, I will return to my seat.”

  “It was good to see you.” A conciliatory note filled her voice, and though I felt the tug of her eyes, I did not look up. She had to know I had taken offense . . . well, let her know. I would forgive her on the morrow.

  “Good night, my queen.” I bowed again, turned, and left the royal banquet.

  Later that night, after evening prayers had been said and the house lamps extinguished, I paused outside my room to ask Father what Urbi had meant. “She said something about the people blaming her if the river doesn’t flood. But how could Urbi control the rise of the waters?”

  Father paused and lifted his candle. “Chava”—weariness lined his voice—“how could you live so many years in Egypt and not understand the role of the pharaoh? The people consider him a god and believe their gods are responsible for the rise of the river. If the river does not flood, then the king has not done his job.”

  “But Urbi is neither pharaoh nor a god. She’s just a girl.”

  Father’s gaze darted toward the doorway, as if he feared others might be listening. “You are too familiar with the queen. But now that your friend sits on the throne, the Egyptians consider her more than human. Many of the Alexandrians adhere to this belief, as well. But she will never be like HaShem.”

  I frowned. “I have always thought most people worshiped the same God, though we call Him by different names. Urbi once told me that the god Ptah created the world by imagining it and giving utterance to his thoughts. Is this not the same way Adonai created the earth?”

  “There may be very little difference between one story and another,” Father answered. “But what little difference there is, is very important.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His dark eyes searched my face as the silence stretched between us. “We know the world was created by HaShem, blessed be He. The Egyptians say the world was created by Ptah, the first of many gods. But there are not many gods: Sh’ma, Yisra’el! Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai echad.”

  “Hear, Isra’el. Adonai our God, Adonai is one,” I whispered.

  Father nodded. “Amein.”

  I took a moment to absorb the reminder. I had never given much thought to the difference between HaShem and the gods of the Egyptians. We worshiped Adonai because we were descendants of Abraham, and we observed certain practices because we had received the Torah. Yet I had always thought that beneath our differences, Urbi and I held similar beliefs. Apparently the gap between us was wider than I realized.

  We believed one God created the world with His voice.

  She believed one god created the world with his voice, then created other gods, diluting his power, spreading out his duties until no one god was all-powerful. . . .

  But what little difference there is, is very important.

  I looked up at Father. “What will happen if famine comes? Will the people rise up against Cleopatra and Omari? Will they be in danger?”

  He stroked his beard. “In generations past, the pharaoh who could not heal the land held an asp to his breast and gave his life to appease the gods. But that sort of sacrifice has not been practiced in generations. Cleopatra and her brother are more likely to pay homage to the gods at their temples and placate the priests. Your friend is well suited for the task of charming her people.”

  Father patted my shoulder. “Urbi was a good friend to you in your youth, but now she must assume responsibilities that would intimidate even an older man. She is a queen—a pharaoh, and the leader of her people—and she will need to concentrate on the tasks before her. She will walk a dangerous path, one filled with risks and traps set by her enemies. Always remain faithful to her, but do not expect to find Urbi when you visit the palace. No matter how dearly she cherishes your friendship, Cleopatra will have no room for girlish concerns.”

  I wanted to argue, but a note of finality in his voice left no doubt.

  Father did not believe HaShem had spoken to me about Urbi. He did not believe I could be a friend of a queen. He did not take me seriously when I said I was meant to serve and bless her, and he did not want me to invest my life in a friend who might lead me away from Adonai.

  So how could I respect and honor him while still believing HaShem’s promise?

  I blinked back a rush of stinging tears and slipped into my room where I could weep unobserved.

  I was already drifting on the currents of sleep when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I startled awake, then lifted my head to see Urbi standing in a pool of moonlight streaming from my bedroom doorway.

  “Urbi?” I mumbled, scarcely believing my eyes. “Am I dreaming?”

  “Chava.” She sat on the edge of my bed, and in the atrium beyond I glimpsed the bulky outlines of Roman guards. “I had to see you.”

  I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees. “What’s wrong?”

  Urbi shook her head, then stared into the darkness. “My father warned me about this.”

  “About what?”

  She spoke slowly, her eyes fixed on some ghostly memory from the past. “A ruler labors under a peculiar disadvantage—though he can protect himself from his enemies by arranging his friends about him, he has no one to protect him from his friends.”

  I blinked in confusion and touched her arm. “Surely you do not think you need protection from me.”

  She smiled. “You are more sister than my siblings.” She covered my hand with her own. “The friends I fear are allied with Omari. I thought the Regency Council was meant to advise my brother, but I have learned that those three men wish to be rid of me. Though my father’s will expressly said Omari and I were to rule together, that threesome conspires to confound, depose, and kill me. They would murder me now if they could—they will probably try. I have had no champion other than my father, and now he is gone.”

  “You have me.” I tightened my fingers around her arm. “And my father and brother would do anything for you.”

  She chuffed softly. “How can a family of Jews help an Egyptian queen? I need a warrior, a king with an army. I need someone with real power. A hero like Achilles or Heracles.”

  “Then why have you come to me? I have no power.”

  Urbi leaned closer, her eyes glittering like black diamonds. “I need you to be my eyes and ears. I need you to tell me when you hear rumors; I need you to discover the source of plots and conspiracies. We can no longer be carefree girls, but I will grant you freedom to roam throughout the palace compound. You will be free to go where I cannot. Come to me when you have new
s to report or give your news directly to Charmion, Iras, or Apollodorus—those three are completely loyal to me.”

  I was completely loyal—could she not see it? For a fleeting instant I wished I could be a slave, that she could own me even as she owned Charmion and Iras. Then she would not question my loyalty, and my father would not keep trying to marry me to some ardent prophecy student.

  Holding her gaze, I nodded . . . and in that moment I forgave her all the hurts that had wounded me. How unfair I had been, chafing beneath her inattention when scheming men were intent on taking her life.

  “Stay close,” Urbi said, trapping me in a sudden fierce embrace. “Do not let time and distance come between us. Please.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I held her for a long moment and assured myself that everything was as it should be. She had gone away for a while, but HaShem brought her safely back. Even though our carefree days were in the past, we would be bound in another, more significant way. Every day I would look out for Urbi’s interests, and she would always know I was watching, listening, and caring. Implicit in HaShem’s promise was a duty, and I intended to fulfill it.

  “You look tired,” she said. “I should go and let you get some rest.”

  The guards stirred the shadows as Urbi stood, and I knew several days might pass before I could speak to her again.

  “One thing,” I called, though I had no right to ask anything of a queen. “Do you promise to find me if you need me?”

  A smile twisted the side of her wide mouth as she lifted her hand, marked by our vows to each other. “Blood of my blood, heart of my heart, I will always look for you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Because it would have been inappropriate for me to go to the palace unescorted, during the following weeks I had Nuru accompany me to the throne room. On that first morning I dressed soberly and walked carefully, a sense of responsibility weighing on me like a cloak. Urbi had been deadly serious when she asked me to spy for her, and I would not let her down.