Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  But on the road ahead, walking with a group, I spied a young pair—a girl about my age, perhaps a little younger, and a young man. From the way they walked together I discerned that they were coupled, so perhaps they had thought about children.

  As we passed the travelers, I turned to Minos. “Stop the wagon.”

  His dark brows slanted in a frown.

  “Please. I need to relieve myself.”

  He sighed but pulled on the reins until the oxen stopped. “Be quick about it.”

  I climbed into the back of the wagon. While Minos protested, I scooped the baby out of the basket and jumped to the road. I strode toward the group of travelers, ignoring the three older people and heading straight for the young couple.

  “Please,” I said, holding out the baby, “will you care for this child?”

  The girl reached for the baby immediately, but the young man stepped in front of her, then peered at the child in my arms.

  “Boy or girl?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  “Boy,” I answered.

  After lifting the swaddling cloths to make sure I spoke the truth, the young man took the infant and handed it to the young woman.

  I gave them a quick nod, then hurried back to the wagon. Minos shook his head when he saw my empty arms. “Who has the baby?”

  “It is not your concern,” I replied, keeping my voice light. “You were told to be rid of the child, and the baby is gone. So your job is done.”

  “Did you tell them the child is broken?”

  I pressed my lips together as my conscience nipped at me. “Perhaps they will know how to heal him. Or they can take the child to a physician.”

  Minos scowled but said nothing else as he cracked the whip.

  Neapolis had been built on a promontory that jutted into the bay of Naples. Nearly as Greek as Alexandria, the city prided itself on its artistic sensibilities, for statues of Hercules, Venus, and Zeus adorned nearly every street corner. Even the name of the city testified to its Greek beginnings, as nea meant new, and a polis was a Greek city-state.

  As Minos navigated the narrow streets, I noticed several elegant villas, some high on the slope of an imposing mountain to the west. Arched aqueducts led from the mountain to the city, and a central plaza offered public baths, a theater, and a large temple. The city square was spacious, relatively clean, and undoubtedly far more beautiful than overcrowded Rome. Long strings of laurel leaves decorated the façade of public buildings, probably to commemorate some festival to a Roman god.

  The marketplace was not so beautiful—no matter how artfully the merchants attempted to display their wares, visitors who stood downwind could not escape the odor of animal waste. The sounds of clucking chickens, barking dogs, and lowing cattle filled the air, and after riding past the slave market, I could not erase the images of emaciated captives from my mind.

  “The wagon can stay here.” Minos pulled up to a shed in an alley, then jumped out of the wagon and stalked away—in search of a merchant, I presumed. I climbed down to stretch my legs. I certainly had no desire to wander about in this part of the city.

  Yet despite my memories and initial revulsion, I found myself wandering back to the slave market. I stood at the fringe of the curious crowd, not wanting to venture too close to the people waiting in chains. Some appeared to be family groups; others had the look of defeated soldiers. One cage held nothing but women, and from their bored expressions I suspected they had worked as prostitutes in some foreign town. Even as free women, they had sold themselves every day.

  Two years before, in the days when Urbi and I had disguised ourselves and wandered in and out of the merchant booths, we had seen such women and wondered why they would lower themselves to that sort of life. Now, older and wiser, I understood how life could change in a moment. Things that would have been unthinkable became possible, even necessary, merely to survive.

  I turned away from the pitiful captives and walked through the market, eyeing vegetables, fine linens, scented candles, dishes, lamps, painted jugs and vases. The goods became finer and more expensive the farther I walked. I turned a corner and found myself in a booth that sold scrolls, dozens and dozens of them. They were neatly written on sheets of papyrus and tied with leather straps. A king’s collection of fine stories and human wisdom, neatly stacked on spools in wooden cubicles.

  The owner of the booth took my measure with one swift glance, and I braced for his rebuke. But instead of chasing me away, he came forward. “Does your mistress read?” he asked, his fingertips tripping over several scrolls on a table. “Would she like a new copy of Homer’s Odyssey? We have a fine collection of Egyptian love poems.”

  A sudden thought startled me. “Have you a work on midwifery? Anything about the birth of babies?”

  The merchant tilted his head, then snapped his fingers. “Over here,” he said, stepping back to pull a heavy scroll from a stack. “All the latest information assembled from experts in the field: Pliny the Elder, Celsus, and Galen.”

  I took the scroll and held it on my palm, admiring its heft. “How much?”

  “One sestertius.”

  A valuable work, but I had no money. I could not even sit and read for a while, for the hawk-eyed merchant was intent on the sale and waiting for my response.

  I scanned the marketplace and saw Minos standing on the base of a fountain across the square, shading his eyes as he looked for me. “I will return,” I told the merchant, placing the scroll in his hands.

  I hurried across the crowded square.

  “Where were you?” Minos demanded. “I have finished the trading.”

  “One sestertius.” I held out my hand. “I have to buy a manuscript.”

  He blinked. “Oh ho, has the princess been shopping? You think I have a sestertius to give you?”

  I refused to be intimidated by his bluster. “I know you do.”

  “Berdine will sell me if I do not bring back a full amount.”

  “Berdine will applaud you for making a sound investment. She sent me to help you, right?”

  “But you helped not at all with the trading.”

  “I am helping now, guaranteeing a way to line your mistress’s purse. So give me one of those coins and be quick about it.”

  With an abrupt grunt, Minos dropped a sestertius into my hand. I hurried back to the merchant.

  With the scroll safely wrapped in silk and tucked beneath my arm, I set out for the wagon. Rather than cut through the crowded plaza, I took a few moments to savor my treasure and slowly retraced my steps. I strolled past the booth with scented oils and silk fabrics, past the fine linens and embroidered himations. I quickened my pace as I neared the stockyard and shied away when a pack of snarling dogs spilled from an alley as they fought over some bloody prize.

  As several men chased the dogs away, I clutched the scroll and lifted my hand to get Minos’s attention. My hand sank, however, when I stepped on something and looked down . . . and glimpsed a bit of swaddling cloth, stained with urine and blood.

  I froze as the wings of foreboding brushed my spirit. When I could move again, I looked up and scanned the crowd, then spotted the travelers we had met on the road. Three older people and a young couple . . . but the woman was no longer carrying an infant.

  I strode toward them, horror and indignation lighting a fire beneath my feet.

  “What happened?” I asked when I reached the couple. They stared at me, eyes wide and blank. I looked from the woman to the young man, then repeated the question in Latin, “What happened to the baby?”

  The man pointed to one of the older men. I glanced over my shoulder, ready to confront him, and saw that his face was set in resolute lines. He might have been poor, but he was still the paterfamilias, and in his home, his word would be law until the day he died.

  “He took the child,” the young man said. “Didn’t want to feed it.”

  “So what did he do with it?”

  The young man did not answer, and his woman refused to
meet my gaze. I whirled around to face the older man. “Did you give the child to someone else?” I demanded. “Will you tell me so I can be sure the baby has a proper home?”

  The old man pushed me. “Go away, slave.”

  “Where is that baby?”

  When the girl began to weep, I should have realized. But defiance had lit a flame in the older man, and he stepped close enough for me to feel his hot breath as he . . . barked.

  The bloodstained cloth. The alley. The frenzied pack.

  My knees crumpled as the world spun around me. I fell in the dust, and someone kicked me once, twice, three times—then I heard Minos roar.

  I opened my eyes as he waded into the fracas and stood over me. “This woman belongs to the Octavii family,” he said, his huge arms flexing. “Strike her again and you will pay damages!”

  A wave of muttering enveloped me, then the crowd shuffled away. I waited, expecting compassion from my fellow slave, but Minos leaned down and none too gently hauled me to my feet. “What were you thinking?” he scolded, his eyes narrowing as he gripped the back of my tunic. “You could have brought dishonor upon Domina!”

  “And what is the penalty for that?” I glared at him and struggled to stand upright. “I have never even met Domina. Why should I care about her?”

  Surprise siphoned the blood from Minos’s face. “Why? Because she holds your life in her hands. If she hears of this—and you would be surprised how quickly word travels—your life may be forfeit. Mine, too, for letting you out of my sight.”

  Ignoring him, I picked up my scroll and strode toward the wagon. I had tried to do something good—something that ought to have resulted in good—yet my efforts had resulted in barbarity.

  What sort of world was this?

  Though Minos tried to distract me with talk of loading the wagon and traveling back to the farm, I couldn’t shake the horror of what had happened to Barabell’s baby. A burning rock of guilt had lodged in the pit of my stomach, and it wasn’t going away, no matter what Minos said. If I hadn’t given the baby to that couple . . . would it still be alive? Minos insisted the child was destined to die no matter what, but I couldn’t agree with him. HaShem was the giver of life, and His gifts should be respected.

  I looked around the marketplace at Neapolis, my vision gloomily colored with the memory of that sweet little boy. Minos was loading bags of cow manure when a distant group of men and women lifted their hands and began to wail. One of the men, a cloth merchant, pulled a length of material from beneath his counter and proceeded to hang black bunting over the stacks of bright fabrics.

  An approaching man, one who wore a toga over his tunic, called to the merchant in Latin: “What has happened?”

  I leaned forward, as did everyone else in the vicinity.

  “A horrible thing,” the merchant answered, turning. “Caesar has been murdered! Killed by a group of conspirators who called themselves liberatores!”

  The announcement was followed by gasps, anguished cries, and exclamations of dismay in several different languages. Yet Minos did not seem much affected, and at length he met my troubled gaze. “Caesar meant something to you?” he asked, his tone casual. “You look as though you have lost your father.”

  Still reeling in shock, I shook my head. “He was not my father.”

  “But you knew about him, even down in Egypt.”

  I drew a deep breath. “I met the man. We might have been friends . . . if my life had not changed.”

  Minos did not press for an explanation, but climbed into the wagon and picked up the reins.

  As the sun lowered toward the Great Sea, Minos snapped the whip and urged the oxen homeward. I suppose we could not have avoided hearing the report—bad news, my father always said, flew around the world while good news was still putting on its sandals. We passed a few torch-lit litters as we traveled north. Even after sunset, the story of Caesar’s death spurred wealthy senators and patricians to hurry home from their leisure villas to discover how the world was about to change. In those litters I caught glimpses of Roman matrons with undone free-flowing hair, pale faces, and black tunics. Men on horseback passed us, their faces dark with the beginning of beards that would grow until the mourning period for Caesar had passed.

  When we stopped at a well to stretch our legs and water the oxen, we learned further details. A pair of men, each wearing the toga that symbolized Roman citizenship, stood outside the adjoining tavern and spoke without bothering to lower their voices. “They burned him in the Roman forum,” one man said, clutching the edge of his toga. “Mark Antony stirred the crowd into a riot with his eulogy.”

  “What do you think will happen to the Senate?” the other man asked.

  The first man shrugged. “Time will tell. But Caesar named his great-nephew, Gaius Octavian, as his heir.”

  “And that Egyptian woman?”

  “Gone. Left Rome as quickly as she could.”

  My flesh contracted at the mention of Cleopatra. Even here, I could not be rid of her shadow.

  Minos waited until we had ridden some distance before he asked me for a translation of the men’s conversation. When I told him what I’d heard, his brows constricted.

  “What?” I asked. “You have heard of this Gaius Octavian?”

  One corner of Minos’s mouth twisted. “I know the name,” he said, smiling. “He is Domina’s son.”

  I stared at him. “I do not understand.”

  “He is a boy no longer,” Minos said and shook his head. “But Gaius Octavian will likely be our master someday. But now . . . he is Caesar’s heir.” He chuckled. “Imagine that.”

  I fell silent. I sensed a pattern in this development, an omen or sign that had an important meaning. I sensed it, I could almost feel it, yet the details eluded me.

  Was it possible? Could it be that even in this, HaShem was ordering my life? That He was watching even now? El Ro’i, the God who keeps watch. The God who sees.

  I did not see how it could be so, yet the feeling persisted: HaShem’s eyes were upon me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Minos and I returned to the farm, I expected Barabell to meet us in tears. But she did not, nor did she mention her baby when I saw her at dinner the next day. Either she had resigned herself to losing the infant or she had already lost so many that she had grown accustomed to having her children taken away.

  Darby, father of the child, sat at dinner with his head lowered, refusing to look at anyone throughout the meal.

  But when we set to work the next day, Barabell went about her work with a stony face that showed no emotion. If not for her red and swollen eyes, I would not have known that she was suffering.

  And I did not tell her what happened to her child in Neapolis.

  Late that morning, I pulled Berdine aside and showed her the scroll I purchased at the market.

  “You bought something?” she said, her brows rising nearly as high as her widow’s peak. “Who gave you permission to spend Domina’s coin?”

  “You charged me with making sure Minos made good bargains,” I said. “If I read this and learn the art of midwifery, I can save the lives of Domina’s slaves and earn money for her. I understand a good midwife can be well paid.”

  She looked at me, her eyes narrowing as she studied my countenance. “Yes,” she finally said, “you are right. I am not sure how busy you will be out here on the farm, but you will likely be called on enough to give you some practice.”

  “I want your help, too,” I said, catching her arm. “I know you have delivered babies here—”

  Berdine cackled as if I had just told a joke. “I am no midwife. I deliver babies because there is no one else to do it.”

  “But you know things. Surely you can teach me what you know.”

  “I can do that in the time it takes to blink an eye. But you won’t know nearly enough. Sometimes the mother cannot push the baby out, and sometimes the baby chokes on the wee rope.”

  “What do you do then?”<
br />
  All traces of humor vanished from Berdine’s lined face. “You watch them die. Sometimes the mother, sometimes the baby, sometimes both.” She crossed her arms and scuffed the ground with her sandal, then lifted her head and looked at me. “Barabell has lost two babies at birth, and I was of no help either time.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Well.” Together we stood and listened to the sounds of the woods—the whisper of wind in the olive trees, the churr of insects, and the rumble of male voices coming from the men’s hut.

  “Maybe you will do us some good as a midwife,” she finally said. “When I tell Domina, I will say you are smart, so you will do her honor. But—” she pointed to the scroll, partially unfurled on the table—“are you sure you can read that? It looks like chicken scratching to me.”

  I smiled. “It is written in Greek, the language of Alexandria. I will have no trouble with it.”

  “Just keep up with your work,” Berdine said, moving away. “If you must read, do it at night. You can use a lamp.”

  Content to know that I had begun to make my way home, I went to work with a lighter heart. I spun wool, helped Lesley feed the sheep, and dumped old food into the pigs’ trough. I helped wash clothes, mend tunics, and gave Berdine a hand in the kitchen when necessary. And at night, when everyone else had gone to bed, I went back to the tables where we ate, lit a lamp, and read until my eyelids were too heavy to remain open.

  Though the farm kept all of us busy, I thirsted for news of the outside world. At home, either Urbi or Father had informed me about what was happening in the world; I knew nearly as much about international affairs as I did about my neighbors in the Jewish Quarter. But on the farm, passing travelers were our only source of news.

  I asked Berdine if she had heard anything else about Caesar’s death, but Minos and I knew more than she did. Because she had been born in the city, Berdine also missed hearing news of the world, yet in her younger years she had gleaned her news from Rome itself. In the city, she told me, even those who could not read could learn of noteworthy events by studying the pictures scratched or painted onto public walls. “It is all there,” she said. “Who is in love with who, who is selling her body, who has the best bread in town, and who is the worst swindler. Of course, some of the images are crude, and others only make sense if you know the people involved.”