Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  Father sighed and led the way onto the street.

  Urbi welcomed us with a warm smile and invited us to recline on the lushly upholstered couches in her private apartments. We nibbled from dozens of elaborate dishes, each laden with some delicacy I had never eaten. With quiet pleasure I noticed she had not served any shellfish or meat sitting in its own blood. She honored us even with her menu choices.

  We talked of simple things—she asked about my brother, and I inquired after hers. We talked about the new moon festival and what we would wear. She asked about the synagogue where we worshiped; I remarked on the beauty of the moon rising over the Temple of Isis.

  “I am so glad you have come,” she said, her face glowing in the lamplight. “Chava, talking with you is such a wonderful distraction. When we are together, I forget all the things that are troubling me. If only I could forget them for more than a few hours.”

  She turned to my father. “Which is why I have invited you, Daniel. Once again, I find I must beg for your indulgence and ask for wisdom.”

  Father pressed his hand to his chest. “I am always willing to serve you, my queen.”

  “Good. I have heard”—Urbi propped her elbow on her couch—“that the son of Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus is en route to Alexandria. I have also heard of civil war in Rome and would like to know your opinion of the situation. I must make certain of the truth but would rather not deal with this in the throne room. As you may have noticed, Omari and his advisors lack the diplomacy necessary to deal with foreign affairs, and I would not have my brother insert himself . . . unwisely.”

  As was his custom when pondering a matter, Father massaged the flesh beneath his beard. “I am not certain my information is current,” he said, a note of apology in his voice, “but I know that Julius Caesar and Pompey have not been amicable since the death of Caesar’s daughter, who married Pompey. The woman died giving birth to Pompey’s child, and some say her death provided Caesar with an excuse for turning on his friend.”

  “Who turned on whom?” Urbi lifted a brow. “Pompey has always been a great friend to Egypt. He lent my father ships and money and troops so he could return and reclaim his authority from those who had forced him from Alexandria.”

  Father inclined his head. “I believe Pompey is a noble man. When he captured Jerusalem some years ago, he entered the Temple but did not intrude upon the Holy of Holies. He also left the Temple treasure alone, and such respect is but one mark of a noble man.”

  Urbi smiled. “Perhaps he had gold enough to satisfy.”

  Father matched her pleasant expression. “Perhaps.”

  “About the other man”—Urbi idly twirled a curl around her finger—“I have heard that Caesar is ambitious and would make himself king.”

  “Rome would never stand for another king and Caesar knows it,” Father answered, his voice flat and final. “The Senate would not allow it. I have heard that Caesar wants the Senate to represent the people more equitably. He would add fresh blood to the old patrician senators and give voice to some of the plebeians and freedmen who have never been properly represented.”

  Urbi appeared to study her fingernails, then looked up. “In any case, I am inclined to be gracious to Pompey’s son. He is coming to raise support for his father’s army. Pompey has established a camp at Dyrrhachium, and they need supplies.”

  Father nodded. “You are to be commended for showing mercy to a man who showed mercy to your father. It is the right thing to do.”

  “I am glad you approve. I will send word to Pompey at once . . . quietly, of course. And thank you for your counsel. My father taught me that one must always be cautious when dealing with the lion that is Rome.” The warmth of Urbi’s smile echoed in her voice as she shifted her gaze to me. “You must find all this talk terribly dull, Chava. Would you like to speak of something more pleasant?”

  I looked from her to my father and realized that the events of the last several months had created a gulf between us. Urbi had become a woman who spent her hours thinking about kings, wars, and feeding her hungry people. The most serious thing I had contemplated in the last few hours was what color himation to wear to dinner.

  But I couldn’t help who I was. And HaShem had given me a promise, so I would always be part of Urbi’s life. If Adonai meant for me to be the queen’s most entertaining distraction, then that is what I would be.

  “If you are ready to talk about something other than wars and armies,” I said, smiling, “tell me what you think about yellow hair. I hear that yellow-haired women are everywhere in Rome.”

  A contingent of royal guards and Egyptian dignitaries were waiting when Gnaeus Pompeius, son of the great Pompey, stepped off a ship in the Alexandrian harbor. Guarded by a select group of legionaries who had once served his father, court officials greeted Pompeius with great fanfare and led him to Cleopatra and Ptolemy XIII. The boy’s advisors hovered around Omari’s throne; Cleopatra sat to his right.

  Father, Asher, and I stood among the fifty or so guests who had been invited to welcome the Roman consul’s son. I had to rise on tiptoe to witness the unfolding drama, but because I had learned a little about what was happening in Rome, I would not have missed the historic meeting.

  In a halting voice, Omari read a proclamation thanking Pompeius for his father’s support of Auletes, the late king of Egypt. He then announced that Egypt would provide sixty ships and five hundred soldiers to aid Pompey’s cause. Egypt would also send several tons of grain to feed the hungry legionaries at Dyrrhachium.

  Gnaeus Pompeius bowed in gratitude, and I caught Urbi’s eye. She sent me a grim smile, acknowledging that her goals had been accomplished. But the worry line on her forehead convinced me that all had not gone well during the negotiation. What had her brother and his advisors done to cause my friend such worry?

  After Pompey’s son thanked the king and queen for their generous support, the assembly in the throne room moved into an adjoining chamber to feast with the Roman guests.

  Along with Father and Asher, I followed the crowd. Abundant food and drink had been set out for Pompey and his retinue, and they wasted no time before dropping onto couches and feasting like men who’d spent a month gnawing on dried biscuits.

  I stepped closer to Father, who had been mingling among the locals at the reception. Many of his acquaintances were wealthy traders who frequently traveled across the Great Sea. Their reports kept Father apprised of the current political climate, so he might have an idea about what troubled Urbi.

  “Father?”

  “Hmm?” He swallowed the honey wafer he’d been chewing and brushed crumbs from his beard. “You look worried, daughter.”

  “The queen appeared anxious—did you notice?”

  He looked over at the couch where Cleopatra reclined, then sighed almost imperceptibly. “She does not appear to be enjoying herself.”

  “I cannot remember the last time Urbi did not enjoy herself at a party.”

  A smile quirked the corner of Father’s mouth. “You know that the arrangement between Pompeius and Egypt was decided long before this morning.”

  “Of course. Urbi said she would arrange it quietly.”

  “What you witnessed today was pure theater. Not only was the matter concluded days ago, but word of Egypt’s support has already reached the Roman Senate.”

  I frowned, unable to understand what any of this had to do with Cleopatra’s unease.

  “Several weeks ago,” Father went on, “a large segment of the Senate fled with Pompey as Julius Caesar approached the city with his army. That segment camped at Thessalonica, where they recently passed a resolution to thank Egypt for its generous response to young Pompey’s request. Furthermore, the Senate decreed that Pompey the elder should be appointed guardian of Cleopatra’s brother.”

  The unexpected report whipped my breath away. “The Roman Senate . . . believes they have the authority to decide such things for Egypt?”

  Father’s eyes sparked with approval. “Now you
begin to understand. Always look for the underlying message, Chava. In the politics of power, what a man says on the surface is rarely what he means.”

  I shook my head. “But how will this affect Cleopatra? She does not need a guardian. She is perfectly capable—”

  “Correct,” Father replied, keeping his voice low. “But Pompey will not consider her his equal, so she will be set aside. Pompey will come in, ostensibly to counsel Omari. But consider the words again, daughter. Cleopatra was not happy to hear of Rome’s intervention, but who else will not welcome that message from the Senate?”

  Nearly everyone, of course. But when I drew breath to voice my reply, a better answer surfaced: Omari’s advisors. Those three bloodthirsty fleas would never surrender their exalted positions as counselors to the king. But how could three men resist the will of all-powerful Rome?

  “In this,” Father said, following my thought processes, “the advisors and the queen will be united. They will not want interference from Rome.”

  I lifted my head and looked at Urbi, understanding far more than I had when I’d arrived.

  “I’ll be home soon, Father.” Standing outside the reception room, I rose to kiss Father’s cheek, then tightened my grip on the bag that dangled at my waist. I had worked hard on the scroll inside and did not want to lose it.

  “Chava.” Father frowned. “You should leave with us. It is not proper for a young woman to wander about the palace unescorted—”

  “I know these hallways as well as I know our house. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”

  I sent him and Asher away with a quick wave and then turned down the marble hallway that led to Cleopatra’s apartments. The crowd from the reception had not completely dispersed, so people would be lined up at the dock, waiting for a skiff to row them across the harbor to the mainland. If Urbi wasn’t too exhausted, we might have a little time to visit.

  I smiled at the guard who always stood outside her door. “Is the queen available for me?”

  The man narrowed his eyes at me, then stepped inside the chamber to inquire. A moment later he returned with Charmion, who inclined her head and gave me a brittle smile.

  I tilted my head to study her. I was reasonably sure she returned my dislike and distrust in full measure, but I would never share these suspicions with the queen. My friend had more important matters on her mind.

  “May I help you?” Charmion asked as the guard walked away.

  “I wanted to speak to Urbi.” I intentionally used the queen’s family name to remind the slave that I was not some random person from the city.

  She inclined her head. “The queen is resting. She was not feeling well, so the physician has given her something to help her sleep.”

  My hopes sank. I would not disturb Urbi if she felt unwell, but I wanted to share something—

  “Please give her this.” I opened my bag and placed the scroll in Charmion’s hand. “It is a poem I wrote. I thought she might enjoy it.”

  Charmion held the scroll on her open hands. “I will tell her.”

  The slave slipped through the doorway, leaving me alone with the carved wooden door.

  I sighed. Nothing to do, then, but join the others at the docks. I trudged down the hallway, realizing too late that I should have kept the scroll until I saw Urbi again. If she read it while we were together, I would be able to see her reaction—and I’d know if she liked it or if she only pretended to like it. Now I would never know, because Urbi had perfected the skill of accepting gifts with a pleasant, diplomatic expression.

  The slaves had not yet lit the torches in the hallways, so I walked next to the wall and slid through shadows. My soft sandals padded noiselessly over the marble floors without a sound to mark my progress. Oh, what I would give to be a shadow on the wall in this place! I felt more at home in the palace than I did in my father’s house, and HaShem had promised me that I would be Urbi’s friend for a lifetime.

  I was approaching a corner when I heard voices . . . whispering male voices that seemed oddly out of place in a hallway that led to the queen’s chamber.

  Instantly aware of my vulnerability, I leaned against the wall and hoped that whoever stood beyond the corner would pass and not see me. While I waited, heart pounding, I recognized the peculiar nasal quality of one speaker: the voice belonged to Achillas, commander of the royal guard.

  “Tomorrow night,” he said, his whisper creating a fist of fear in my stomach. “I have a company of loyal guards prepared to seize her. They will transport her to the port, where she will be taken on board and removed to Mauritania. Once we know she is safely away from Egypt, Pothinus will send word. But you have to open the gate for my men.”

  My blood ran cold, freezing me in place. Who could he intend to seize but Urbi? Achillas controlled the soldiers who were sworn to protect the royals, but few of them would disobey an order from their commander. And Pothinus! He had probably organized the entire plot. Once they had Cleopatra safely away from Alexandria, once they were sure they would not face insurmountable consequences, they would kill her. The Ptolemies had been murdering their relatives for generations, so why shouldn’t they kill another one?

  I waited, not daring to move a muscle, until the voices ceased and the sound of footsteps faded away. I felt my way along the wall until I came to a carved niche, then nearly upset a vase of flowers as I stepped into the space. I hid behind the flowers and did not venture forth until a tall figure in a loincloth passed by. I knew the guard—he always stood at the queen’s door. He must have slipped away to meet Achillas after he went to fetch Charmion.

  You have to open the gate for my men . . .

  I walked back the way I had come, cautiously navigating the darkness, keenly aware of the heavy thump beneath my breastbone. How would I explain my sudden reappearance? How could I remain cool beneath the gaze of the man I had just overheard plotting with Achillas?

  I inhaled deeply to calm my racing heart, then drew a tight smile over my teeth. I approached the guard outside Urbi’s door and gave him the most innocent look I could muster. “I have important news for the queen.”

  The guard looked at me as if I were some annoying species of insect. “Were you not sent away?”

  “I have come back. I have to tell the queen . . . about news from Rome.” I broadened my smile and fluttered my lashes, playing the naïve fool I had been for far too long. “She will want to see me, I know she will.”

  The guard frowned but opened the door and stepped inside. Not waiting for him to fetch Charmion, I followed, ignoring his cry as I strode through the anteroom and into Urbi’s bedchamber, drawing the bed curtain with a quick flick of my wrist.

  The queen had stretched out to sleep, and annoyance shone in her eyes when she lifted her head and saw me in the lamplight. “Chava,” she said, her tone sharp, “have you forgotten where you are?”

  I turned, trembling, and walked to the door where the traitorous guard stood, his sword drawn and his eyes blazing. “My queen,” he said, his tone clipped, “what do you want me to do with her?”

  Urbi sighed heavily, then waved a languid hand. “Leave her be.”

  My forearms pebbled with gooseflesh as I waited for him to step back and close the door.

  “Chava,” Urbi said and pushed herself into a sitting position, “if this is about your poem, we can talk about it later.”

  I fell to my knees by her bed. “Forget about the poem.” Not knowing how far the plot had spread, I lowered my voice: “I heard them in the hallway. The guard at your door and Achillas. Tomorrow night the commander of the guards is going to order his men to take you away from Egypt. You must act without delay.”

  Disbelief flickered in Urbi’s dark eyes, but she did not question me. Instead she sat up and rang a bell. Apollodorus appeared immediately, as if the bell had been connected to his arm.

  Wearing only a linen kilt and brandishing a curved dagger, he bent toward the queen, his eyes flashing with alarm. “My lady?”

&n
bsp; She placed her hand on my arm, acknowledging my support as she swung her legs off the bed. “We leave tonight. But we must go silently.”

  “Shall I alert the others?”

  “Spread the word. Have our men meet us at the shoreline, not the dock. No torches.”

  I gaped at her. “You knew about this?”

  She threw me a warning look. “Not when, but I knew it was coming, and so did your father. I saw them, like little mice, rubbing their hands as they plotted in corners.”

  Cleopatra pulled on a hooded robe and tugged on another cord. Charmion and Iras appeared, each carrying a loaded basket. “Time to go,” Cleopatra told her slaves. “Take only what we need and pack the boat quickly. Apollodorus will alert our supporters. He has men ready to escort us out of the city.”

  Out of the city . . . away.

  A boulder rose in my throat as the meaning of those words hit home. Urbi was leaving Alexandria again, perhaps forever this time. But HaShem had promised that I would be with her on her last day . . . Had that day come? Would she be caught and killed on her way out of the palace?

  I caught her arm. “You must be careful, Urbi. They mean to kill you.”

  “I know.”

  Cleopatra moved to her desk and scooped up a pile of scrolls, then paused. With her free hand she reached out and traced the curve of my cheek. “I read your poem,” she whispered, smiling. “I owe you so many things—years of friendship and love. But tonight I owe you my life.”

  “Let me go with you.” I clasped her hand. “Surely it was meant to be. I could be useful on your journey—”

  “You can be useful in Alexandria. Tell no one what has happened here tonight. Say nothing of your part in this, not even to your father. But stay close to him and learn as much as you can. I must have accurate reports if I am to defeat those who would destroy Egypt in their quest for personal power.”

  I would have protested again, but Urbi silenced me with the stern look of a queen. “I cannot let you come. Your father would not allow it, and I would not disrespect his wishes.”