by Angela Hunt
I waited until the doors of the great hall opened before slipping inside. Morning sunlight shone through the high windows of the long room, spangling the painted hieroglyphs and the tile floor. Gilded benches lined the walls, and I chose one near the center of the room. The legs had been fashioned to resemble a lion’s, and lions’ heads formed the front of the armrests. The bench was one of many, but the remaining seats were quickly filled by elder statesmen and white-robed priests.
Within a short period, so many people had entered the hall that Nuru and I lost all custody of our eyes and stared at the colorful assemblage. For generations of Ptolemies, offices and honors had been freely bestowed on Alexandrians who pleased the king. Auletes was gone, but his honorees remained, and they reminded me of peacocks as they strutted in the throne room, each attired in the colors of his station.
The highest honors were granted to the “Kinsmen of the King,” whom the reigning king and queen addressed as “father” or “brother.” They were allowed to wear the “splendor of the head band,” a colored ribbon, and a gold brooch, which had been initially pinned on by the king himself.
Beneath the Kinsmen were the “First Friends” who wore purple robes and tended to pose themselves along the perimeter of the room so their plumage might be easily observed. Beneath the First Friends were the “Friends” who wore wide-brimmed felt hats and high-laced boots, many of them made of red leather.
I had observed these people on the streets of Alexandria, but never had I seen them assembled so thickly in one place. The effect was overwhelming, and for a moment I regretted choosing a plain ivory chiton—I might as well have been wearing wallpaper, so completely did I blend into the surroundings.
Before Urbi’s midnight visit I would have been embarrassed to be among those who had nothing to do but sit and observe the court, but her tearful entreaty had filled me with courage. If anyone questioned my right to be in the hall, I would simply explain that I had come at the queen’s request . . . and dare my questioner to challenge me again.
Finally, Urbi entered and sat on a golden chair mounted on an elevated platform. For the morning appearance she had chosen a beige sheath of Egyptian design, but she wore her hair in the Greek style, adorned with the simple white ribbon that signified a Ptolemy ruler. Large pearls hung from her earlobes and had also been sewn into the fabric of her gown. Her eyelids had been painted with glittering green malachite and heavily outlined with kohl. Little of my girlish friend remained in her appearance.
A long line of petitioners waited for an audience, so I opened my bag and pulled out a needle, thread, and a small piece of embroidery, determined to keep my fingers occupied while my mind absorbed everything I saw and heard.
The morning passed quietly enough, but while a priest from Memphis was announcing the death of a bubastis bull, two messengers burst through the double doors and stalked forward with purposeful strides. The guards around the throne stepped forward and eyed the men with wary eyes, but the intruders knelt on the marble floor and presented Cleopatra with a scroll.
Cleopatra gestured toward Apollodorus, who took the scroll and read it. “Marcus Calpurnius Bibulous has sent his two sons to you,” Apollodorus said. “He asks that his sons be allowed to address the Roman legionaries who came here in the service of your father. He requires their service in Syria, where he is gathering an army to repel invading Parthians.”
Though Cleopatra’s face remained composed, from the quick uptick of her shoulders I knew she was anxious about how to respond. One of her hands tightened on the armrest of her chair, and one foot tapped the floor in a quick rhythm. I knew nothing about Roman legionaries in Egypt, but the message had clearly made her nervous.
“You may speak to the legionaries,” she told the two men. “You will find them camped outside the city. Present your case directly to them.”
“Will the queen not order them to return with us?” one of the men asked. “If you give the order—”
“They are Roman soldiers and Bibulous is a Roman governor,” Cleopatra interrupted. “I will let the men choose whether or not to obey.”
“Still, a royal command—”
“These men have lived seven years in Alexandria,” Cleopatra continued. “They serve Rome by guarding Egypt’s throne, Egypt’s grain, and Egypt’s port, but they are Rome’s legionaries, and by Rome they are rightfully commanded. So speak to them if you must, but do not expect me to disservice Egypt by sending them away. That is my final word.”
She nodded, dazzling the men with the brilliance of her smile. The two sons of Bibulous bowed again, then strode out as purposefully as they had entered. I watched them go and then shifted my attention back to the throne.
Cleopatra was listening to the Memphis priest, doubtless trying to focus on his words, but a small line between her brows told me that she was still thinking about the Romans’ request . . . and she was still anxious.
I drew in a deep breath, comprehending for the first time what my father meant when he said Cleopatra had responsibilities I would never understand.
“Have you ever seen anything so charming?” Urbi smiled at me from her couch. “I discovered them in a little village near Memphis and commanded them to return with us. They will enliven many a dull day in our royal court.”
I smiled and turned to the trio of singing dwarfs, who stood in the center of the queen’s garden. Charmion and Iras stood beside Urbi, giggling every time she smiled, syncing their responses to their mistress’s expressions. I felt my own smile freeze when I realized how organized—and practiced—their reactions were. Did every slave respond to her mistress so mindlessly?
I was trying to remember if Nuru behaved in the same way when a man approached the garden gate. Apollodorus, the ever-vigilant watchdog, went over to investigate. A moment later he approached Urbi, bending to whisper in her ear.
The relaxed curve of her mouth tightened. “I must see him now?”
“The situation is urgent, my lady.”
The dwarfs continued to sing as she exhaled a breath and nodded.
Apollodorus allowed the man to enter the garden, watching while he prostrated himself on the ground.
“Sorrowful news, my queen,” the man whispered, not lifting his head. “The two sons of Bibulous have been murdered.”
Cleopatra lifted her hand abruptly, cutting off the singing trio. Silence enveloped the garden, the wind catching the last bit of the melody and flinging it into eternity. Lines of concentration deepened along Cleopatra’s brows and under her eyes.
Why? Because Bibulous was a Roman governor, and even I knew that Rome was best kept on the north side of the Great Sea. . . .
“Who has done such a thing?” Cleopatra leaned forward. “Rise, man, and answer!”
The guard reluctantly rose to one knee. “The legionaries killed them. The men do not want to leave Egypt. They consider it their home.”
Cleopatra covered her lips with her fingers, and I knew she had to be desperate for guidance. But who could guide her? Apollodorus was a servant, not a politician, and Omari’s advisors had only the boy-king’s interests at heart.
She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked up and motioned for Apollodorus to come closer. He listened to her whispered command, straightened, saluted, and strode away.
What had she set in motion? I had no idea, and did not care to know.
I shifted on my couch and let out a sigh of relief, grateful I was not the daughter of a king. Urbi and I were only twenty, but she lived in a position where decisions could spread ripples that affected far more than one family. A realm where decisions, especially hasty ones, could have fatal consequences.
I did not envy her.
Wearing her face like a mask, Urbi calmly told the singers and slaves to leave us. When they had gone, she stood and walked toward me, then sank to the grass at my feet. “Chava,” she said, pillowing her head on my couch, “take a guard and go home, for you must fetch your father. I have an urgent need for his
wisdom.”
I nodded at her command and left the garden as swiftly as my slippered feet could carry me.
By the time I returned to the palace with my father, the queen had retired to her private chambers. I found Urbi in the anteroom with her prime minister, a Greek called Protarchus. He stood as if planted on the marble tiles, his face a study in worry.
Urbi’s visage remained smooth, but her lips curved in a smile when we entered.
“You cannot continue to ignore the situation,” Protarchus was saying, his arms moving in the practiced motions of a professional orator. “The harvest is so bad that people are abandoning their villages and moving to the cities. But who will feed them there? Already the village of Tinteris has disappeared, its occupants unable to feed themselves or their herds. The people are unhappy—”
“Thank you, Prime Minister.” Urbi dipped her chin in polite acknowledgment. “I am aware of the situation and will hear your report tomorrow. I must attend to another matter now, and I would hear from Daniel the scholar before anyone else.”
The shadow of a frown passed over the prime minister’s face as he watched my father genuflect before the queen. But what could he say? Protarchus bowed and backed away, then disappeared behind the heavy double doors.
“Welcome.” Urbi stood to greet my father and gestured to a pair of chairs across from her couch. While she reclined, Father and I seated ourselves, grateful that she wasn’t making us observe all the formalities that usually accompanied a royal audience.
Father pressed his hands together. “How may I serve you, my queen?”
Urbi rested an elbow on the armrest of her couch. “You gave me much advice when you were my tutor, and you listened while I framed arguments for situations I was unlikely to ever encounter. Now I am facing a situation that is terrifyingly real, and I find myself uncertain of how to proceed.”
Father bowed his head. “You have but to ask, and I will do my best to advise you.”
“I hoped you would say that.” She straightened. “The situation is this: the Roman governor sent his sons to procure the services of the legionaries Gabinius left in Egypt when he escorted my father back to Alexandria. The soldiers do not want to leave, and they have murdered the governor’s sons. I must do something, but . . . what?” She waved at the empty air. “If I do nothing, the governor may call on Rome for help—or even march on Alexandria. But if I punish the legionaries, the army may rebel. Though they enjoy living here, I daresay their loyalty lies with Rome, not with an untested queen. If the army revolts, the people of Alexandria may join them. They did not approve of my father’s attempt to appease Rome, and the Alexandrians would welcome an opportunity to drive a wedge between me and the Roman army.”
“But the people love you!” I interjected.
Both Father and Urbi looked at me as if I were a toddling child.
“The people are fickle,” the queen said. “They are feathers, fluttering about with each change in the wind.”
“They are sheep,” Father added. “They follow the shepherd with the loudest voice.” He turned his attention back to the queen. “A difficult situation.”
“And that’s not my only problem.” Urbi leaned toward him and glanced at the door. “My brother’s advisors are plotting against me. I have no proof, but they scurry away like frightened mice whenever I approach. This is not a good time to be a friendless queen.”
My father fingered his beard, letting the silence stretch as he considered the queen’s situation. I shifted my gaze from him to her, suddenly feeling as though they had left me behind. My father never dealt with armies or empires, but he knew history, and he did not seem at all daunted by the queen’s situation.
As for Urbi . . . I did not understand how she could sleep at night. My father and my friend were obviously made of stronger stuff than I.
Father cleared his throat. “My lady, if you will allow me to speak frankly—”
Urbi nodded. “Please.”
“Send some of your most trusted men to determine who committed the murders, then send the guilty men to the Roman governor.” Remembering himself, he bowed his head. “Forgive me—I am not ordering you, I am stating what I would do in your situation.”
“Understood,” Urbi said. “What else?”
He pressed his lips together. “Regarding your brother—your father’s will expressly stated that you should rule jointly with Omari, so it is as wrong for you to cast him off as it would be for him to do the same. Try to tolerate him and his Regency Council. Try to include him in your decision-making. I saw that you recently had a coin minted with your portrait—next time, place his image on one side, yours on the other. The people must see that you are trying to implement the stipulations of your father’s will.”
Urbi drew a deep breath. “Ruling with my brother is not easy, especially when he is ordered about by three fools who care only for their own ambitions.”
“Yet those fools”—Father underlined the word—“are powerful, and your brother loves them because they spoil him. Be wary of them, especially the eunuch.”
“And if co-ruling with my brother is not possible?” Urbi’s brows arched. “What then?”
“Spread loyal people throughout the palace complex,” Father advised. “Have your man Apollodorus cultivate friends among the guards so you can escape if they attempt to imprison you. If Omari’s men move against you, you must flee to a safe place and rally support among the Egyptian people who love you. Then take the throne by force, if you must, but take it. Because you will be better for Egypt than your brother and the three misbegotten usurpers who feed him a steady stream of flattery.
“But know this,” he went on, “even as you have found it difficult to share the throne with Omari, he will find it more difficult to share the throne with you. Your wit and intelligence outshine your brother’s. He suffers in comparison, and he will not allow himself to look weak . . . and neither will his advisors. So he will move against you. It is only a matter of time.”
Urbi arched an eyebrow in my direction, her way of telling me that I had a brilliant father. Then she stood, effectively ending our audience. “Thank you.” She reached for my father’s hands. “And if you pray to your God tonight, whisper a word for me.”
Though Urbi never mentioned the matter to me, Father heard rumors that Pothinus had told the queen that the Romans were dismayed over how she handled the murder of Bibulous’s sons, especially since she acted without input from Omari. The eunuch threatened to alert Rome of Cleopatra’s “defiance of her father’s will” unless she allowed her brother to be by her side whenever any royal business was conducted.
Ptolemy XIII began to take his place beside Cleopatra in the great hall, though the yawning space between their thrones seemed to represent the difference in their abilities.
For several weeks Father and I attended court six days out of every seven, silently observing Cleopatra’s attempt to rule with her younger brother. From separate benches in the great hall we observed the queen and king, Cleopatra sitting erect and aloof while Omari slumped and giggled in his golden chair. The boy’s three advisors whispered in his ear almost constantly, but the king’s Regency Council did not speak to the queen unless absolutely necessary. Clearly, the threesome did not care to advance Cleopatra’s interests. They did not know her as well as they knew Omari, and what they did know of her—that she was clear-eyed, level-headed, and quick-witted—frightened and intimidated them.
Once Omari and his retinue began to regularly appear at court, the atmosphere in the great hall changed completely. The quiet choirs and entertainments Urbi favored were replaced by jugglers, mimes, and grotesques from the neighboring temples. Animal trainers, with whips in one hand and jeweled leashes in the other, brought in jungle beasts that prowled over the marble tiles and rattled the candlestands with their roaring. I was among those who watched these spectacles with alarm, noting Urbi’s seething frustration with her brother’s antics.
When petitio
ners approached the throne, Omari settled frivolous issues with a word or a quick wave. Upon hearing about more important matters, he turned immediately to his advisors for their judgments. If Cleopatra tried to insert her opinion, four strident male voices drowned out her words.
More than once she looked at me after such an exchange and lifted her brow. I knew she was saying: See what I must endure?
Once I caught Urbi eyeing her brother with an expression of pure loathing on her face. Patience had never been one of her virtues. She tolerated her brother because Father had advised her to do so, but how long could she endure the boy king’s ridiculous foolery and his advisors’ self-serving ambitions?
I did not know. But even though I was naïve in the ways of politics, I sensed that the throne of Egypt wavered on a scale that would soon tip conclusively to one side or the other.
Chapter Eight
A few weeks later, just before the festival of Passover, Father and I were invited to dine privately with the queen. After spending so many hours watching Urbi deal with her brother and her many responsibilities, I had become resigned to not spending much time with my friend. But when the invitation to dinner arrived, hope bloomed anew. Perhaps she had found a way for us to remain close despite her demanding schedule.
“I do not blame her for wanting to get away from that circus in the throne room,” Father said, a grim smile flashing in his beard as we prepared to leave the house. “You and I will seem dreadfully dull by comparison.”
“I do not plan to be dull,” I said, folding my arms. “I want to ask her what she thinks of the latest hair styles from Rome, about whether she will wear Greek or Egyptian fashion at the next festival, and if I can finally become her official lady-in-waiting.”