Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  I smiled as happiness bubbled up inside me. Perhaps . . .

  An older woman stopped to peer at me. “Can I help you?”

  I gave the commemorative marker an affectionate pat and faced the woman. “I am searching for a man known as Daniel the scholar. He used to tutor the royal children. Have you heard of him?”

  The woman turned and squinted toward the horizon. “Heard of him? Yes.”

  “Good. Do you know where I could find him?”

  “No.” She lifted her hand and turned away.

  “Please—do you know anyone who might know of him?”

  I asked several people the same question. Several nodded, but when I asked if they knew where he was, they backed away as if I had leprosy. In a moment of shock I realized they did not trust me. How could they when they no longer knew who I was?

  I searched for a familiar face, hoping someone would recognize me, but only strangers passed before me. I blew out a breath and left the synagogue, walking the streets until I found myself in front of our home. The front steps had been swept clean, so someone lived in the house.

  Gathering my courage, I went to the door and knocked.

  A slave in a white tunic answered. “Yes?”

  “I am searching—” I swallowed to overcome the sudden rise of emotion—“for Daniel the scholar, who used to live here.”

  “Never heard of him.” The man attempted to close the door, but I stepped forward, leaning my weight against it. “Please—is your master home? I would speak to him.”

  The slave chuffed in exasperation, then invited me into the vestibule. “Wait here.”

  Soon an aged man shuffled toward me, his white beard long and untrimmed. When he lifted his gaze to mine, I realized who he was. “Avraham! You came to the slave auction to tell us about Asher and Yosef.”

  He squinted. “I am sorry, but . . . Chava? Can that be you?”

  I sighed and gave him a relieved smile. “Am I so changed?”

  “No. But I never expected to see you again.”

  I caught his sleeve. “Tell me, do you know where my father is?”

  “Daniel?”

  “Yes! What happened to him?”

  “A miracle that you should come here today.” Avraham took my arm and pulled me toward a couch in the atrium. “How did you get here? Where have you been?”

  “I have been in Rome,” I said, impatient for news of my family. “I am a free woman now.”

  Avraham sat and gestured for me to do the same. “Did you travel alone?”

  “I sailed with Octavian’s forces.”

  Avraham blanched at the mention of the Roman’s name. “Are you a Roman now?”

  “Not at all.” I squeezed the old man’s arm, eager to bring the conversation back around to my family. “I am looking for my father. Is he . . . dead?”

  A tremor passed over Avraham’s face. “Dead? No, child, not at all. He is here, working.”

  “Here?” I stood. “Where?”

  “Let me have a moment. I will . . . prepare him for you.”

  Avraham stood slowly and walked away, his hips rocking as he entered the peristyle and headed toward the rooms beyond.

  I paced before the reflecting pool, my thoughts racing. Why would Father need to be prepared to see me? Was he ill? Was Avraham keeping him as a slave?

  My questions were answered a few moments later. Leaning heavily on his cane, Avraham returned, followed by my father, who walked between two slaves. He held his head erect, but his wide eyes were unfocused, and his step was deliberate and even slower than Avraham’s.

  “Why?” Father asked, irritation in his voice. “Why did you bring me out here? I was working on that passage in Dani’el . . .”

  Blind. All those years of reading by candlelight, all the writing and work. He probably had someone read to him now, and perhaps he had an amanuensis to write his thoughts.

  I looked at Avraham, who smiled with approval, then I ran to my father. The slaves obediently backed away, leaving him alone in the open space, reaching for support—

  I caught his hands and fell on my knees in front of him. “Adonai has brought me home, Father.”

  His hands trembled in mine. Lowering himself to the sound of my voice, he placed his fingertips on the top of my head, then sank downward until we were face-to-face. “Chava?” His voice broke as his fingers brushed my forehead, my ears, my nose and mouth. “Can it really be you?”

  I pulled his palms to my cheeks and let him feel the contours of my face. “HaShem has proven himself faithful. He restored my freedom and brought me back to you.”

  “Oh, my dear daughter,” Father whispered. “Blessed be Adonai. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  We bowed our heads, forehead against forehead. Tears ran over our cheeks, as warm and healing as summer rain.

  “Why are you here?” Father finally asked. “Where have you been?”

  “Time enough to explain later,” I said, helping him stand. “But have you heard from Asher or Yosef? And how did you escape slavery?”

  Father opened his mouth and closed it, unable to speak. Seeing his difficulty, Avraham spoke for him. “Asher sent a letter to this house, and I received it. He is living in Jerusalem, but I will write to him at once and tell him you are home.”

  “And Father? How did he escape slavery?”

  Avraham helped guide my father to a couch. “After Daniel was sold at the auction, some of us combined our resources and redeemed him. The buyer could not resist an offer that doubled his investment.”

  “These friends wanted me to work for them,” Father said, laughing. “Such stern masters!”

  A grin flashed in and out of Avraham’s beard. “We gave him his freedom at once,” he said, “but we wanted him to continue his work on the testaments of the patriarchs. And because I did not think he’d want to live here without you and Asher, I moved in and brought my servants. We’ve been here ever since.”

  “But the man who answered the door said he’d never heard of Daniel the scholar. I thought—”

  “We have lived quietly and discreetly,” Father said, “since we did not know if the queen would continue to look for your brother. We advised Asher and Yosef to remain in Judea, and everyone thinks this house now belongs to Avraham. All the while, Chava, we prayed that HaShem would bring you back to us.”

  “He did.” I paused, letting the words echo in the room. “I have spoken to the queen—Asher is no longer in danger.”

  Father lifted his head. “He can come home?”

  I sank to the edge of his couch and caressed a few stray hairs from his forehead. “Yes,” I said. “He and Yosef, too.”

  “My son will be happy to hear that,” Avraham said, slapping his legs. “He has waited years for this day.”

  I looked at him, a question on my lips. “Has Yosef—?”

  “Has he married?” Avraham said, a smile beaming through his beard. “How could he when he was waiting for you?”

  I woke to the sound of grim blasts of rams’ horns, a sound I had not heard since the death of King Auletes. After a moment of confusion, I understood their significance—Cleopatra had joined her father.

  I dressed quickly, told a servant where I was going, and reached for a himation to wrap my hair. When the servant protested that a lady should not be on the street alone, I laughed, for I had faced far worse dangers and survived.

  I walked to the Canopic Way, heading toward the harbor and the Royal Quarter. A double row of guards stood outside the entrance to the palace. If I wanted to see Cleopatra, I’d have to go through Octavian.

  I doubled back and hurried in the direction of the camp outside the city walls. I was flushed and perspiring by the time I arrived, but the guards recognized me and allowed me through the gate. I paused outside the officers’ tents and asked for Octavian or Agrippa.

  Agrippa must have heard my voice, as he stepped out to greet me.

  “How?” I asked, meeting his sober gaze.

 
He pressed his lips together, then slowly shook his head. “We aren’t sure. Some say an asp; others say she took poison. But we found no snake and no bottle, just her and the two slaves.”

  “Iras and Charmion? What did they say?”

  “They were dead, too.” He looked at me and nodded. “Come. I’ll take you, and I’ll tell you everything I know on the way.”

  Fortunately, Agrippa did not make me walk. He mounted a horse, pulled me up behind him, and we set out. He let the horse walk, which allowed him to turn his head and share the story.

  “Last night,” he began, “Cleopatra asked the guard to carry a letter to Octavian. When Octavian received it, he read her request that she be buried beside Antony, so we knew she had ended her life. We rode over at once and found her lying on a couch. She was dead already, with one of the slaves lying dead at her feet. Another slave was adjusting the diadem on Cleopatra’s brow. A guard asked, ‘Was this right, Charmion?’ And the slave replied, ‘It is entirely right and fitting for a queen descended from so many kings.’”

  Clinging to Agrippa, I turned my head so he could not see my tears. The Romans were undoubtedly asking why she would do such a thing, but I understood. Urbi had been raised to be a queen, and bear kings and queens for Egypt. If she could not do those things, she had no purpose for living. She could not imagine being anything or anyone else.

  And Octavian could not let her keep the rich and fertile land he coveted.

  “Octavian sent for snake charmers,” Agrippa went on, letting the horse pick its way through the street traffic. “They tried to suck the poison from the wound, but it did not help.”

  “Wound?” I forced the word through my tight throat. “She had a wound?”

  “Two tiny scratches on her arm,” Agrippa said. “Some suggested she had pricked herself with a poisoned pin, the marks were so small.”

  I nodded and forbade myself to weep. “Go on.”

  “There is nothing else,” Agrippa said, his voice heavy with compassion. “Octavian has given orders that her tomb be finished, that she be allowed to rest there beside Antony. The two handmaids will also be interred there.”

  We had reached the harbor. Agrippa dismounted, then helped me off the horse. We got into one of the small boats and rowed silently across the gleaming silver waters. We tied up at the royal dock and walked beneath the steady gaze of the red sphinxes, who appeared to have been shocked into wide-eyed silence by the fate of their queen.

  Only two guards stood at the entrance to the palace, and they let us pass without a word. Epaphroditus remained at the door to the queen’s chambers. He saluted as we entered.

  I was about to cross the anteroom on my way to the bedchamber, but Cleopatra lay in the front room on a gold couch, reclining as casually as if she had decided to nap after dinner. Charmion and Iras were with her, Iras at Urbi’s feet and Charmion at her side.

  I stepped closer. Cleopatra wore the Egyptian-style gown she favored for official occasions, and in her hands she held the ceremonial crook and flail. Beside her, on the couch, lay a stack of letters. After picking them up, I saw all of them were from Julius Caesar.

  I placed them back at Cleopatra’s side. I did not know if she wanted to be close to them or perhaps remind those who would find her that she had once been precious to Caesar and a valued ally of Rome. In any case, I was glad Octavian had agreed to let her have the royal burial she wanted. He had won, and he would suffer disgrace in the eyes of the Alexandrians if he did not treat her with the respect she deserved.

  I turned and tugged on Agrippa’s sleeve. “Let us go.”

  “So soon?” he asked.

  I glanced back at the golden couch. “My friend is gone. Nothing remains here but her memory . . . and I cannot yet bear the weight of it.”

  I did not weep for Cleopatra as her body left the palace and rode in a gilded wagon to her tomb. I walked with the mourners who tore their hair and split the heavy air with ululations, but I did not shed a tear for the woman whose stone sarcophagus was nearly hidden by the many flowers thrown upon it during its short journey to the grave.

  I stood like a statue as the white-robed priests recited passages from the Egyptian Book of the Dead and spoke about the afterlife in Greek. When slaves placed Mark Antony’s sarcophagus on a stone table next to the queen and prepared to seal the huge double doors, I did not cry.

  When Octavian, who stood with Agrippa and other Romans, lifted his hand to the people of Alexandria, I watched with indifference.

  My eyes remained dry as I walked away from the tomb. I had not known the woman who loved Mark Antony and bore him three children.

  But before going home, I went to the dock, the gateway to Antirhodos Island. I walked over the uneven planks, my ears filling with the hollow sound of sandals upon wood, and settled myself into one of the small rowboats. I reached for the oars, gripped them, and felt a splinter slide into the soft side of my thumb.

  And I heard Urbi laughing.

  I looked at the bow of the boat, where she had leaned back so many times, legs crossed at the ankles, curls blowing softly in the wind, dark eyes snapping with mischief. For an instant, her image was as clear as spring water, then it faded and all I saw was a weathered boat.

  Loving Urbi . . . had been a blessing and a curse. So had Adonai’s promise.

  “Why?” I looked up to the sky. “Why did you let me know how it would end?”

  I heard no answers on the wind, but an ibis that had been strutting over the dock hopped onto the edge of the boat. He tilted his head toward me, then stretched his wings and tucked them again as if settling into a comfortable position.

  “Did you know her?” I asked. “Did she ever feed you from this dock?”

  The bird danced on the edge of the boat, two steps toward me, two steps back.

  Surrendering to my grief, through tears I told the ibis about the most remarkable woman I had ever known.

  Rome officially annexed Egypt on the thirty-first day of the eighth month. A week later, I stood by the harbor and watched Octavian’s ships sail away. Octavian, Agrippa, and Cleopatra’s children by Mark Antony were aboard, and I doubted I would see any of them ever again.

  Egypt would never be the same. With Cleopatra’s death and Caesarion missing, Egypt had ceased to be an independent kingdom. It was now a province of Rome and would be governed by a Roman representative who reported directly to Octavian, soon to be named Augustus.

  Would the new praefectus appreciate the rich history of the land he administrated? As he walked the halls of Cleopatra’s palace, would he respect the genius that had fashioned Alexandria and built the wealthiest kingdom in the world?

  I felt the wind blow my himation, flattening it against the side of my face as the sea breeze teased the fabric. The same wind blew the Roman ships farther out to sea, taking Agrippa with them . . . and a little piece of my heart.

  “Chava?” Father’s voice called to me. I turned and saw him waiting with Avraham.

  “Coming.”

  The city had been overtaken by mourning. Women sat in the streets, beating their breast and grieving for their queen. Cleopatra’s reign might have had a difficult beginning, but her people had loved her through feast and famine. Not once had her kingdom been rocked by revolt.

  A few weeks later I was blowing out the lamps when I heard a knock at our door. A servant went to answer it and approached me soon after. “Mistress,” he said, “a man asked me to give you this.”

  He placed a scroll in my hand, and my pulse skittered when I recognized the seal: Agrippa’s. I took the scroll to a still-burning lamp and unfurled it.

  Chava, do not hesitate to listen to the messenger I have sent to you. —A.

  I wondered if Agrippa meant to pursue me now that we were no longer slave and master, but then I realized Agrippa was far too honorable to court me when he knew we could never marry. He was also in Rome, so this message had come a great distance.

  Curious, I went to the vestibule, wher
e the messenger waited. “Yes?” I asked.

  “Mistress.” He bowed his head. “Commander Agrippa has asked me to speak to you about a matter of vital importance.”

  I gave him a polite smile. “You may speak freely.”

  The man glanced right and left, then lowered his voice. “You may not be aware, lady, of all that is happening in Rome and Alexandria. The Senate has decreed the names Mark and Antony must never again be conjoined. His birthday has been proclaimed an unfortunate day on which no public business can be enacted. Several of Antony’s close associates have been sentenced to death, including the Roman senator who supervised the queen’s textile mills. People who were among those close to Antony and the queen have been quietly murdered.”

  Thoughts I dared not verbalize buzzed in some dark place, an ugly swarm. “What has this to do with—?”

  “Anyone who might be respected enough to rally the people to Antony’s or Cleopatra’s memory must disappear. That includes anyone who was close to the queen.” A warning flickered in the depths of his eyes. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “You think I am in danger? My family too?”

  He nodded. “My master dared not put these thoughts to parchment lest the scroll fall into the wrong hands. So he sent me.”

  “But I helped Octavian with Cleopatra. Agrippa would never let Octavian send someone to—”

  “Octavian does not tell Agrippa everything.” The messenger’s mouth twisted into something that could not be called a smile.

  “What should we do?”

  “Leave Alexandria. Go anywhere but Rome. Live quietly. And depart as quickly as you can.”

  I crossed my arms and tried not to shiver as an evening breeze blew through the open door. An inner voice warned I could be leading my father into a trap. But Agrippa would never betray me, and the handwriting on the message had definitely been his.

  “We’ll leave soon,” I told the messenger. “Though I still believe Octavian would not harm me.”

  “My master said you might be hard to convince, so he told me to ask you this—did Octavian not promise to keep Cleopatra’s children safe?”