Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  “Never.”

  “Am I not clever enough? Being a scholar’s daughter, I am sure you have high expectations—”

  “Stop.” I lifted my hand, scarred palm outward. “Therein lies the problem. I have no expectations of a husband, for I have promised my life to another.”

  A flicker of shock widened his eyes as panic, swiftly quelled, tightened his mouth. “I-I am sorry,” he stammered. “Your father did not tell me—”

  “I have not been promised in marriage,” I said quickly. “But I have promised to be the queen’s servant for as long as we live. When she returns, I will probably move to the palace to become her lady-in-waiting.”

  A frown flitted across his features. “If she returns,” he said. “And if she does not, will you reconsider?” He caught my gaze. “For I will not marry anyone but you, Chava. I am certain of it.”

  “I wish you would not be so stubborn,” I said, standing. “I am sure HaShem has a wife for you. You only have to find her.”

  “Look who is being stubborn now.” He stood, too, and took advantage of the solitude to take my hands. “Consider all you will sacrifice if you commit to a life in the palace. You will not marry. You will cut yourself off from children, a blessing from HaShem. You will be surrounded by strangers who worship false gods and who may expect you to worship them, too.”

  “The queen has never required me to—”

  “You have never been a member of her household. You have been a free woman, but things will change if you live at the palace.” He squeezed my hands as he leaned closer. “What do you want to do with your life, Chava? Why has HaShem placed you on this earth?”

  The question stole my breath. No one had ever asked me such a question, and in all my study of philosophy, I had never considered my life in those terms.

  “What—why, HaShem himself has told me what I will do. I will bless the queen. I will be with her on her happiest and last day.”

  Yosef’s hands tightened on mine. “Can you not do those things married to me? Can you not do those things as a daughter of Israel?”

  I blinked. I could, of course, but I had never imagined a life outside the palace. I had always envisioned myself clothed in silk garments and gold chains. In all my daydreams, I had never seen myself as a Jewish wife with children following in my wake. . . .

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Then know this.” Yosef leaned so close that his breath fanned my cheek. “I am sure HaShem has a husband for you. When the time comes, you have only to look for me. I will marry no one else.”

  He released my hands and walked away. I sank slowly to the couch, my hands damp and my heart aching.

  Four days after Pompey’s murder, Caesar sailed into Alexandria’s fair harbor with ten warships and over four thousand legionaries. Father and I watched from our balcony as a small boat bearing Ptolemy XIII’s flag rowed out to meet him.

  This time, I noticed, the king’s advisors sent something grander than a fishing vessel.

  “It is rumored that Omari has dispatched Theodotus with a gift for Caesar,” Father said, his voice filled with dread.

  “A gift?”

  “Pompey’s head.”

  We did not observe the encounter, but we heard about the aftermath. Ptolemy and his advisors had hoped to win favor with Caesar, but their so-called gift had the opposite effect. Caesar wept when he saw his friend’s head, and though no one could say if those tears were heartfelt, his demand for justice was sincere enough.

  The Roman consul came ashore wearing a white tunic and purple toga—not just dyed, but heavily embroidered with gold. “He comes in peace,” Father said, “or he would have worn his armor. But he comes as a consul, for he wears the toga picta, a badge of high authority.”

  “How do you know these things?” I asked, surprised at my father’s knowledge of Roman clothing.

  He gave me a wry smile. “Daughter, you should read something besides poetry.”

  Twelve toga-wearing men surrounded Caesar—I had no idea who they were—and the attendant who walked closest to him carried a bundle of rods, one of which ended in an ax blade. When I asked Father what that was, he called it a fasces, a symbol of a magistrate’s power and authority.

  The sight unsettled me. Did Caesar intend to rule over us? He might have hoped to impress us with his fancy ax, but my fellow citizens—Egyptians, Greeks, and Jews alike—were offended by what we saw as a flagrant infringement of Egyptian independence.

  Father, Asher, and I watched from the balcony as an angry mob surged toward Caesar and his men. The Romans quickly retreated, but within days tents sprang up around the royal buildings Caesar’s men had claimed for their barracks, and Alexandria’s citizens rioted at every opportunity.

  “Caesar clearly does not understand the people of our city,” my father observed one afternoon, his hand falling protectively on my brother’s shoulder. “Never has a city been more passionate and quick-tempered, and never have citizens been as eager to make their feelings known.”

  “Will he leave soon?” I asked, troubled by the sight of so many Roman ships in the harbor.

  Father shook his head. “He could not leave if he wanted to. For the next few months the winds will be unfavorable, so the Roman will be anchored here until spring.”

  Omari, who had been encamped outside Mount Casius, returned to the palace. In an effort to persuade the Romans to be on their way, the boy king and his Regency Council arranged for substandard grain to be served to the legionaries and allowed only broken crockery to be used on royal tables, including the king’s. The palace slaves were told that if Caesar asked what had happened to the gold and silver plates and utensils, they should reply that Cleopatra had absconded with everything of value.

  When we realized that Caesar would not be leaving as abruptly as he had arrived, I began to hope that Urbi would return from exile. I knew she would not remain away from her beloved kingdom if an arbitrator would agree to settle the trouble between her and Omari. Although she had longed to enlist Pompey in her cause, she might be even more eager to recruit Caesar, who had left his wife in Rome and, if gossip could be trusted, had an especial appreciation for intelligent, attractive women.

  Fourteen days after Caesar’s arrival, I received a message from a slave who would not identify the scroll’s sender. The message, penned in Aramaic instead of Koine Greek, told me to expect the delivery of a carpet within hours. The carpet had come a great distance, the sender warned, and should be handled with the greatest care. A Sicilian would meet me at the docks near the Necropic Gate to arrange delivery.

  I lifted the scroll and studied the handwriting—was it Urbi’s? She had always been so careful with her stylus, I could not tell if it was her hand. But the message had definitely come from someone close to her.

  My pulse pounded in my throat as I summoned Nuru and told her we were going out. I draped my himation over my head like a cowl and led Nuru onto the street. We left the Jewish Quarter and walked down the Canopic Way, passing the great library, the Mausoleum of Alexander, and the Agora. I walked quickly, forcing Nuru to jog behind me, and we were both breathless when we reached the western part of the city. We crossed the bridge over the canal and reached the Necropic Gate, which opened to the port and the Necropolis where Alexandria buried its dead.

  The sun had begun to color the western horizon as we waited for our unknown contact. Water slapped at the docks, sending sprays into the air, and a few boats bobbed on the surface and creaked their ropes. Nuru clung to my hand, her anxiety plainly visible. We had never been out this late, and we had never been in this part of the city without a male escort.

  We walked along the docks until we met an old man, his face seamed by the sun and the passing of decades. When I asked if he had seen a Sicilian in the area, he pointed to a small vessel tied to the dock.

  Nuru and I walked toward the boat. When we reached it, I called out, and almost immediately Apollodorus emerged from the shadows. Behind him, barely
visible in the shadowy hold, I caught a glimpse of my much-missed friend.

  I bit my lip, deliberately tamping down my exuberance. One of Omari’s spies might be watching, even in this deserted place.

  “How can I help you?” I asked, taking care to keep my voice steady.

  Apollodorus nodded, his eyes urging caution, and glanced behind me before answering. “I cannot leave the parcel unprotected. But if you could hire a cart, or perhaps rent a donkey, I could arrange delivery tonight.”

  “I can do that.” I stifled the urge to bow, then grabbed Nuru’s arm and dragged her back over the dock.

  Asher had a friend who rented pushcarts, and within the hour I had procured one. Nuru pulled it back to the port, then waited on shore while I hurried to the little boat.

  I found Apollodorus on the deck, a dagger strapped to his waist.

  “Behold, the cart awaits.” Flushed with victory, I pointed to the conveyance. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Yes.” Apollodorus lowered his voice. “I hear Caesar sleeps on the grounds of the palace.”

  “He does. In a villa near the harbor.”

  “I would be recognized if I approached the guards. Could you deliver an item to the Roman? My lady says you are known to the guards, so your presence would not be unexpected.”

  I peered into the shadowy hold, hoping Urbi could hear me. “I can deliver anything you like. No one will think anything of it.”

  “If asked, you should say you are bringing a gift for Caesar. I will walk behind you, hooded like a slave.”

  Though every fiber of my being wanted to jump aboard that boat and find Urbi, I knew I could not risk exposing her. But I could help her reach Caesar.

  Apollodorus’s plan made sense, but I could not ignore the danger. If one of Omari’s men discovered I was working with Cleopatra, my life would be in danger—and not only mine, but my entire family’s. Since I was an unmarried woman, my father would be held responsible for anything I might do.

  But Father would agree to do this himself, if given the opportunity. He knew Urbi would be a more capable ruler than her foolish, bloodthirsty brother.

  I drew a deep breath and forbade myself to tremble. “Load your parcel into my cart,” I told Apollodorus. “And let us be on our way before we lose the remaining daylight. Once darkness falls, we could be stopped and searched on the street.”

  Since we had a long walk ahead of us, I girded my courage about me and walked in front of Nuru and Apollodorus, who followed with his head lowered, dragging the handcart behind him. Though I was as jumpy as a cat—with good reason—part of me thrilled to be a part of such an endeavor. On that walk through Alexandria, I held a queen’s life in my hands.

  I tried to behave normally as we traversed the city, but every time someone turned to look at us, my heart nearly stopped beating. If Omari had heard rumors of her departure from Mount Casius, he might have planted spies throughout Alexandria. Was the man outside the theater squinting at me? The woman with the monkey—was she a lookout for the king? The three mimes performing across from the library—had they been positioned there to watch for Cleopatra?

  My friend Acis stood at the entrance to the palace grounds, but beside him stood an unfamiliar legionary who had to be one of Caesar’s men. “I am Chava, daughter of Daniel the scholar.” I punctuated my words with a smile. “I bring a gift for your commander.”

  The legionary eyed the bulky bag on the cart. “What’s in it?”

  “A carpet from the East. Slaves have just taken it off the ship.”

  “I know this one,” Acis said. “She and her father come to the palace often.”

  The legionary ignored Acis and walked the length of the cart, his sword in hand, and my pounding heart kept pace with his footsteps. Would he realize that the lumpy bag was the approximate length of Egypt’s missing queen?

  He pressed the tip of his sword to the bag as if to test its substance.

  “Please!” My hand flew to my throat. “The weave is delicate. I could not present Caesar with a damaged rug.”

  “If the carpet is so delicate, how can anybody walk on it?” He prodded it again with the flat side of his blade.

  Fortunately, the legionary’s examination lasted only a moment. He returned to my side and met my smile in full measure. “Always a pleasure to serve a beautiful lady.”

  My face warmed with embarrassment. “May—may I ask where I may find Caesar?”

  “You cannot go inside the gate. Leave the bag here.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t!” I swallowed hard. “Someone might be tempted to steal it, and I have been charged with seeing it safely into Caesar’s hands.”

  The legionary hesitated, his eyes roving over me, then he gave me a lopsided smile. “You do not look dangerous. All right, take it in, but then you must leave at once. Caesar is staying in one of the villas by the harbor—the western one that sits off by itself. You’ll see guards outside the door.”

  “Thank you.”

  I draped my himation back over my hair and strode forward, my heart resuming its normal pace only when I heard the reassuring creak of the cart behind me.

  We walked slowly, taking care not to draw undue attention, and remained in the shadows as much as possible. The Ptolemies had built dozens of buildings on the palace grounds, for each ruler wanted something different from his predecessors. In addition, they had built small villas along the harbor for older children and visiting guests. Caesar, apparently, had taken one of these.

  The sun had nearly vanished beneath the horizon when we stopped outside the westernmost villa, where a group of armored legionaries warmed themselves at a fire in an iron brazier. They faced the shoreline, where the surf rolled over the shallows and brushed the shore.

  One of the guards stepped forward and jerked his chin toward the handcart. “What’s in the wagon?”

  I gave him my most beguiling smile. “I am daughter to Daniel the royal tutor, and I have brought a gift for Caesar.”

  “Caesar doesn’t need a tutor.”

  “Please.” I fluttered my lashes. “Is there some law against bestowing honor on a commander who has done so many mighty deeds?” I had no idea how many mighty deeds Caesar had done, but surely he had done something noteworthy.

  The soldier glanced again at the bag on the cart, then shrugged. “Leave it here. We’ll give it to him in the morning.”

  “Impossible. This gift is of great value, and a friend has charged me with delivering it directly into Caesar’s hands. I can leave it with no one but him.”

  The man squinted at me. “Let me get this straight—you’ve come here on behalf of some tutor?”

  “My father is a tutor. My friend asked me to deliver this gift.”

  “And who is this friend that we should heed his wishes?”

  I hesitated. “Are you Caesar’s man or the king’s?”

  He stiffened. “Caesar’s.”

  “Then I will tell you—my friend is Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Apollodorus’s chest swell and his arms tighten. I did not know what he would have done if the guard had reacted with hostility, but Cleopatra’s name proved powerful. The legionary motioned to his fellows, who opened the door to the villa and waited for us to carry the gift inside.

  With great care and tenderness, Apollodorus lifted the burlap bag and placed it across his shoulder. Together we walked into the villa that had once belonged to Urbi’s overly ambitious sister Berenice. A fountain splashed in the vestibule, but I led the way into the atrium. Around the reflecting pool I saw a desk, a trunk, and a triclinium of three cushioned couches. An older man—older even than my father—sat on a couch, a basket of scrolls at his side and a scroll in his hand.

  At the sound of our approach, he lowered the scroll and eyed Apollodorus. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Please, sir.” I stepped forward and bowed. “Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, sends you a gift.”

  Caesar l
ifted both brows, then motioned us forward. “Your timing is odd, but”—he smiled—“you have aroused my curiosity.”

  Apollodorus gently lowered his burden to the tiled floor. He untied the string around the burlap bag and pulled the fabric away from the rolled carpet. Respectfully and with great gentleness, he gave the rug a push. The carpet began to move, unfurling under its own power. When it had finished, both Caesar and I were astonished beyond words. He was surprised to find Cleopatra sitting on the floor; I was amazed to see her sweaty, disheveled, and looking distinctly unlike herself.

  But when she lifted her gaze and extended her hand for Apollodorus to help her up, no one could doubt that she was the noble daughter of many kings. I found myself bowing out of instinct. Her dignified demeanor demanded it.

  “By all the gods—” Caesar began, blinking.

  “That,” Cleopatra interrupted, “is not the proper way to address a queen of Egypt.”

  Caesar released a brief grunt of surprise and lowered himself to one knee. It wasn’t the most sincere genuflection I had ever seen, but Cleopatra smiled. Turning, she accepted the cloak Apollodorus offered, used it to wipe perspiration from her bosom and neck, then flicked her wrist toward the door. “Leave us,” she said, and I knew she meant for me to go, as well.

  Apollodorus and I backed out of the room, then joined Nuru outside the apartment. In full view of the guards, Apollodorus bowed to me, so unexpected a gesture that I felt my cheeks warm again.

  “We owe you a debt, my lady,” he said, a grim smile crossing his face.

  “You owe me nothing,” I answered. “Like you, I am determined to serve her.”

  Out of love. I did not speak the words, but in that moment I knew what I should have told Yosef when he asked to marry me. Why did I want to serve Cleopatra? Because I loved her, had always loved her. We were bound by love and a blood vow, and I could not abandon her any more than I could abandon my father or brother.

  Though I would have given my favorite jewels to remain and hear about what had happened in Caesar’s chamber, I could not stay, for darkness had fallen and Father would be worried. After saying my farewells, Nuru and I left the palace, parting with Apollodorus at the gate.