Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  “But—”

  “No.” Her eyes flashed a warning. “But when you pray to your God, ask him to look with favor on Cleopatra, the unfortunate queen of Egypt. Now go home, and stay alert. I’ll send a message if I can.”

  Reluctantly, I departed, choking on a knot of unshed tears.

  Determined to keep the palace spies from knowing of my part in Cleopatra’s abrupt departure, the next morning I dressed and went with Father to the throne room as usual. When the queen did not appear, with dozens of others I expressed shock. When I heard that Cleopatra could not be found in her apartments, I held my hand to my throat and did my best to look horrified. “Where has she gone?” I asked, wide-eyed. Tears sprang to my eyes in honest consternation when Achillas replied that no one knew.

  Someone knew where she was—Apollodorus and Charmion and Iras, plus a few other loyal supporters—but I, her best friend, knew nothing.

  I sat with Father and Asher as Omari and his counselors stormed and stewed, speaking in veiled terms no one else understood. Achillas fretted aloud, storming in and out of the great hall on the pretext of questioning the guards, and Pothinus was clearly discomfited, wringing his hands and occasionally venturing into hysterics. “How could we have lost her?” he kept asking. “What if she has gone to Pompey?”

  Then Theodotus, who had always been the more pragmatic of the trio, pointed out that they had settled a thorny problem with very little difficulty. “We will have no more struggles with Cleopatra,” he announced, publicly acknowledging that the sister-brother pair had not been amenable. “She has left Alexandria; perhaps she has left Egypt. Which can only mean that she has ignored her father’s wishes and abdicated her position. As of today, Cleopatra is queen no more.”

  “I will not have her back!” Omari declared, energetically stomping his foot. “I do not need her to tell me what to do!”

  “Of course not, mighty Pharaoh.” Theodotus bowed low before his charge. “We will take care of things. Your advisory council will take care of everything.”

  A few days later, at dinner, Asher reported that Ptolemy XIII had issued a new prostagma or royal decree: no longer would grain be moved from Middle Egypt to Lower or Upper Egypt, but would be immediately dispatched to the port of Alexandria. Anyone who transgressed the new law would suffer confiscation and death, and anyone who divulged information about a transgressor would be richly rewarded.

  Never had a decree about grain been so widely announced, nor had any decree concerning commerce warranted such a severe penalty. “They would kill someone for shipping grain to the hungry people of Upper Egypt?” I asked, baffled. “The famine is not so severe that Alexandria is starving . . .”

  Father held up a finger. “What did I tell you about politics? This is political, you may be sure of it.”

  I bit my lip and struggled to remember. “What a politician says on the surface is rarely what he means—”

  “Exactly. The famine is severe, but not so severe that we must condemn wheat exporters. This law is about Cleopatra. They want to starve her out.”

  I blinked. “Has she no food?”

  “She must gather people to fight for her cause,” Father explained. “Which means she has to feed an army. If she cannot, her supporters will leave. So her brother’s advisors want to be sure Cleopatra has no access to grain.”

  I fell silent, absorbing the news. Urbi had an army. I did not know how she managed to raise one, but I wasn’t surprised that she could.

  By the time the spring windstorms had blown over Alexandria, we heard that Cleopatra had left Egypt. I thought Theodotus, Achillas, and Pothinus would relax their efforts to kill the queen, but they continued to wage war against Urbi, turning the nobles of Alexandria against her and rallying them in support of her brother. In the great hall of the palace, which I continued to visit with my father, Ptolemy XIII’s Regency Council frequently proclaimed that Cleopatra was anti-Egypt and pro-Roman, citing her surrender of the murderous Gabinian soldiers as proof. They declared she was her father’s daughter, because everyone knew the late king had been deeply involved with the Roman Senate.

  Despite the council’s bold attestations, my father believed the treacherous trio betrayed Cleopatra for quite another reason. “She was never a pliable child,” he told me, a gleam of pride in his eye, “and her spirit is still independent. She will not be ruled by them, so they want to be rid of her.”

  Like the rest of Cleopatra’s supporters, I kept quiet and helped my father with his work. In everything I did, I kept an ear cocked for rumors about our queen. News trickled in slowly, reports coming to us through merchants and sailors who traveled the Nile and the Great Sea.

  We learned that immediately after leaving the palace with a band of loyal slaves and soldiers, Cleopatra established a camp in the middle of the Egyptian desert. When it appeared her location had been discovered, she abandoned her camp in the dead of night and traveled to Ashkelon, a Philistine city located between Egypt and Palestine. The people of Ashkelon cheered her arrival, and Cleopatra charmed them so completely that they featured her image on a series of silver coins. Father obtained a set, which we proudly displayed on a table in the atrium.

  While Cleopatra charmed the people of Ashkelon, the boy king’s advisors fumed and made preparations for all-out war. Achillas assembled the army and marched them to the Egyptian border, waiting for an occasion when Cleopatra might leave the well-defended city and could be captured outside the walls. Omari and his advisors had already formally deposed Cleopatra, but they could not guarantee the boy king’s position until she was dead and no longer a threat.

  Though I could not be with my best friend, at night I lay in my bed, closed my eyes, and tried to imagine how she had spent her day. Were Iras and Charmion taking good care of her? Was Apollodorus standing guard outside her door? Was she worried about the future, and did she still fear for her life?

  I prayed, begging Adonai to keep her safe from those who would do her harm. “I know she does not worship you,” I would whisper, “but for my sake, will you guide her steps? Someday she will be a great queen, if you will preserve her life.”

  As I listened to rumors and watched the counselors manipulate the boy king, with increasing clarity I saw that these months, as painful as they were, had to be teaching Cleopatra lessons in commerce, diplomacy, and war. When she returned to Alexandria, she would be wiser and even better equipped to rule.

  I said as much at dinner one night. Asher stopped eating and looked at me, surprise on his face. “How do you know she will make it back to Alexandria?”

  Not wanting to risk an argument, I lowered my gaze and shrugged. “I know, and that is all.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “I know because . . . it is not her time to die.”

  Asher snorted and went back to eating.

  I knew because HaShem had given me a promise that had not yet been fulfilled.

  I lifted my hand and studied the scar across my palm. It had paled over the years and seemed to parallel my lifeline. Would I spend my entire life waiting for Urbi to return?

  While we waited to see which of the Ptolemy siblings would win the throne, Father continued to bring Yosef home for discussions about prophecy, particularly on Shabbat. While I oversaw the roasting of the lamb and the preparation of soft challah, I would hear them debating in the small room that served as Father’s library.

  “Dani’el said there would be seven weeks, and sixty-two weeks,” Yosef shouted one afternoon. “And then the anointed one shall be destroyed.”

  “But who is the anointed one?” Father countered, his voice rising to match Yosef’s. “The first seven has passed—seven sevens is forty-nine, and the reconstruction of Jerusalem took forty-nine years. Then we are to see four hundred thirty-four years, and we have not.”

  I ducked outside and went to the kitchen, where Nuru gave me a skeptical look. “Do you understand all the things your father is talking about?”

  “No,�
� I admitted freely as I lifted the clay lid on the stew pot. I inhaled a deep breath of aromatic steam. “That smells wonderful. I like the spices you have added.”

  “I think,” Nuru said, her mouth quirking in a smile, “that you like this young man. You have never cared what we feed your brother.”

  “Yosef is nice,” I admitted, “but his father is a butcher. We cannot have him going home and telling Avraham that we do not know how to roast a lamb properly.”

  When Father and Yosef had exhausted themselves with debating Dani’el’s prophecy of seventy weeks, Yosef would slip out of the library and find me reading in the atrium. He would ask about my book, often surprising me with his knowledge of the text. Apparently he liked to read as much as I did and frequently spent time browsing Alexandria’s famed library.

  One afternoon he showed me a scroll containing the works of a young Latin poet named Publius Vergilius Maro, commonly known as Virgil. “Would you like me to read one?”

  I smiled in anticipation. “Please.”

  With a well-modulated voice, he read the story of a barmaid called Syrisca, who yearned to leave the city and retreat to a pastoral setting. She set out a picnic and invited a young man to join her, then told him not to worry about the future, but to drink the wine and live for the day. . . .

  When Yosef had finished, he lowered the scroll and looked at me almost shyly.

  “You read beautifully,” I told him, resting my head on my hand. “I like the poem. I have never been to a country setting like he describes.”

  “Nor I,” Yosef said, “but Father tells me that there are well-watered lands outside Jerusalem. I hope to go there one day. I’d love to raise my children in a place where we could easily visit the Temple.”

  I lifted a brow at the mention of children. Was he planning to speak of marriage?

  I stood in a clumsy effort to dissuade him. “Thank you for the poem, Yosef. But I—I should see about dinner.”

  “Chava.” He caught my hand, a bold move. “Do you . . . are you happy in my company?”

  I sighed and looked away. What could I tell him? If I had not vowed to remain by Urbi’s side, I could easily love the handsome youth before me. But I had built walls around my heart, strong defenses that could not be penetrated even by direct confrontation and lovely words.

  “Yosef . . .” I forced a smile into my voice. “You are most charming, and I enjoy being with you. But I am not looking to marry now . . . nor in the foreseeable future. I hope you will understand.”

  Hurt flooded his eyes as he released my hand. I turned and walked quickly to the kitchen, to check on a roast that did not need tending. But what else could I do?

  At sunset, I lit the Shabbat candles and held my hands over my eyes, feeling the pressure of Yosef’s gaze upon me. I also knew that after dinner, Father would ask if Avraham the butcher should bring us a bridal contract.

  I would have to reply that while I liked Yosef very much, I could not enter into a betrothal without first settling matters with Urbi. “I pledged my friendship and support to her,” I would tell him. “I am her eyes and ears in Alexandria. And I know you would not want me to dishonor one promise to enter into another one.”

  He would not argue with me, for how could he? The Torah had taught me to love and obey my father, but it had also taught me to be faithful to my vows. Any other father might have ordered me to marry Yosef, but my father could not order me to do anything that contradicted everything he had taught me.

  So he would wait with the rest of us as Omari and Urbi played their dangerous game of cat and mouse.

  Chapter Nine

  The waiting game continued another year. During those months, Yosef continued to visit our home, Pompey chased Caesar, and Omari hounded Cleopatra, finally setting up camp across from the island of Mount Casius, where the queen and her army had established a base.

  And I continued to pray for my friend’s safety . . . even though a new friend had taken up residence in my heart.

  Yosef, always kind and considerate, stopped debating prophecy with Father and spent most Sabbaths reading poetry with me. And while my will remained strongly committed to Urbi and HaShem’s promise, my heart wondered what it would be like to live with Yosef, to dine with him every night, and to sleep in his bed. To have a son who looked like him, or a daughter with his dancing eyes . . .

  Whenever my thoughts began to chase these dreams, my stubborn will shut down my imaginings as quickly as possible. But as the days passed with no word from Urbi, my will grew steadily weaker.

  Rome remained embroiled in civil war. Though at several junctures Caesar and his army appeared to be trapped, HaShem granted him grace.

  But though Pompey also suffered numerous losses, he would not surrender. Because Egypt had been good to him, and because he had been named guardian of the boy king, the aging warrior gathered his wife and young children and set sail for Alexandria. The Gabinian legionaries, his former men, were still in Egypt, and Pompey envisioned them as the nucleus of his new army. He knew Egypt’s great wealth could sustain him as he built up his forces and continued the fight against Caesar.

  But life intervened. In late September, a small group of boats appeared near Omari’s military encampment. He sent a small boat—a fishing vessel, nothing fine—to fetch Pompey. The boat was piloted by a three-man welcoming party: Achillas, Lucius Septimius, the current commander of the Gabinian contingent, and another Roman officer who had served under Pompey.

  Pompey bade his wife and young children good-bye and stepped into the vessel. As the four men neared the shore, Lucius Septimius drew a blade and viciously stabbed Pompey, then cut off his head. Egyptian battleships in the harbor fired on Pompey’s ships, destroying several and killing one of Pompey’s relatives.

  Though the citizens of Alexandria despised Rome, no one cheered Pompey’s death. The general had been a legend even in Egypt, and he had been known as a fair and reasonable man. Because he had spent his life being gracious and generous, he had approached Egypt expecting to be received in the same manner.

  He had not expected betrayal from a boy king.

  When Father brought the horrific news to our house, Asher and I sat in stunned silence for several moments. Then Father said Omari might have murdered Pompey in an effort to keep Caesar at bay. With his enemy dead, or so the king’s advisors presumed, Caesar would come to Egypt in search of Pompey, view the dead man’s corpse, and depart, having no reason to linger in the land of the pharaohs.

  How wrong they were.

  To pass the lonely days while Urbi was away, I had taken to writing her long letters inked on slips of parchment that would never be wrapped around a spindle and delivered. Writing was not nearly as satisfying as talking to Urbi, but it did allow me to release all the swirling emotions and thoughts I experienced in her absence.

  One afternoon I heard a knock at the door while I was composing a letter. Since Father and Asher were out, I kept writing, knowing the doorman would take a message from the visitor. But after a moment Nuru appeared in my doorway, a tentative smile on her face. “You have a visitor, mistress.”

  I lowered my pen. “Who would visit me?”

  “Yosef.”

  I shook my head. “He has probably come to see Father. Send him on his way, and I’ll tell—”

  “He asked to see you.”

  I bit my lower lip, then stood and brushed the wrinkles from my chiton. “I cannot imagine what he wants,” I said, pausing to check my reflection in the looking brass. “He probably wants to tell me something about Asher. Or maybe he wants to know what Father might like as a gift. One never knows with young men—”

  Nuru caught my shoulders, holding me still, and used her fingers to smooth a few hairs at my temple. She pinched my cheeks for a second, then smiled. “You look lovely. Go to him.”

  My pulse pounded as I walked to the vestibule and invited Yosef in.

  Though he had been inside our home on dozens of occasions, he locked his hand b
ehind his back and regarded the couch pillows as if they were works of art. “You have a lovely home, Chava.”

  “Yosef.” When he turned to face me, I shook my head. “You are always welcome here. Father and Asher are at the synagogue, so what brings you today?”

  He hit me with a sudden smile that made my heart lurch. “How like you to cut to the heart of the matter. In truth, I have come to see you.”

  I gestured to the couch as my heart warmed. When he sank onto the cushions, still smiling, I sat next to him and folded my hands. “Have you and Asher had some kind of quarrel? Or do you want to ask if Father has finally figured out the riddle of Dani’el’s seventy weeks?”

  He laughed softly as he looked at me, his eyes burning with the clear, hot light that gleams in the heart of a flame. “I came to speak to you,” he said, watching me with an intense but guarded expression. “Your father insists that the time is not right, but I visit every week and on occasion I think I see the light of affection in your eyes. If it is affection, tell me truly—might it ripen into love? For I have prayed, and HaShem has led me to your door. No other woman in Alexandria is like you, Chava, and I will have no other to be my wife. So—will you consider a betrothal between us?”

  I swallowed hard, feeling myself compressed into an ever-shrinking space between the weight of my conviction and my fondness for the ardent young man who sat beside me. I could not deny that I was attracted to Yosef. My pulse skittered alarmingly every time I heard his voice, and at dinner I often found myself studying his profile. His laughter wrapped me like a warm blanket, and I wanted to cheer whenever he won a point in a debate with my father. Yosef was a righteous man, handsome, strong, articulate, and bright, but I had promised to spend my life serving someone else.

  Why would HaShem allow me to be attracted to a man I could not have?

  “Yosef,” I whispered, “I am not sure I can make you understand why I can’t—”

  “Have I displeased you in some way?”