by Karen Essex
The king told his daughter in his most serious voice that there were important things about her family that she had to know, crucial information about who she was and where she came from, so that no one would be able to challenge her claim to rule over the land. “Lagos was the father of Ptolemy I, so that Lagos is the official head of our clan,” the king explained. “When people say you are of the House of Lagid, you are not to correct them and say that you are of the House of Ptolemy.” The king looked down his nose at his daughter. “I warn you because I know how outspoken you can be. If you are going to be so, then at least be knowledgeable.”
Lagos, the king said, had heard a rumor that his wife had been having an affair with her cousin Philip, king of Macedonia. Thinking that Ptolemy was really Philip’s child, Lagos ordered the infant exposed on a Macedonian mountaintop. An eagle, however, safely delivered him back into the arms of his mother. “We owe our kingdom to that eagle,” the king said to his little daughter, and then asked if she could tell him why.
“Oh yes, Father,” she eagerly replied. She loved to please Auletes with her interest in family history. “King Philip of Macedonia was the father of Alexander the Great, and Ptolemy grew up to be Alexander’s friend and adviser and general. Maybe they were really half brothers and they knew it!” Kleopatra loved secrets that had to be kept. “Alexander conquered Egypt and he became the first Greek pharaoh. The people loved him because he saved them from the Persian oppressors, who were very bad to the Egyptians. When the high priest at Siwah read the oracle that Alexander was the son of Ra, the people accepted him as Pharaoh and God.”
“And Alexander ruled over Egypt until he was a very old man, fathering many children and dying at eighty in his sleep,” the king said, taunting his daughter.
“No, no, you are teasing me because you think I’m just a child. Alexander went off to claim the rest of the world for Macedonia, and he left Ptolemy in charge of Egypt while he was gone. But he died of a terrible fever in Babylon when he was only thirty-three. That’s when Ptolemy went to Memphis and became Pharaoh, because Egypt cannot be without Pharaoh.”
“Very good, my little one. I see that even though I am a king and one of the very smartest men in the world, I cannot trick you.”
“And when Ptolemy saw that the Egyptians wanted us to follow their customs, he married his son to his daughter, and they ruled after him, and then their sons and daughters ruled after them. And here we are now, more than two hundred fifty years later, sons and daughters of Ptolemy, on the throne of Egypt.” She finished her speech without taking a breath.
Kleopatra had great pride in her family and was determined to prove wrong their detractors. She heard terrible things said about the Ptolemies by palace workers who did not know that she understood their language. The Ptolemies, she heard, were not even real Greeks, but mere descendants of the ferocious, ruddy-faced mountain barbarians of Macedonia. To that, her father instructed her to say that the Macedonians brought vigor and wile to a languishing Greek civilization. “Look at Alexandria—a city that exceeds Athens in its offerings of Knowledge and Art and Beauty. Not built by degenerate southern Greeks, but by Macedonians. Our Mouseion puts Plato’s Academy and the Lyceum of Aristotle to shame! Why, the Macedonians revitalized the Greek world, a world that would have died out with those tyrannical bastards who called for the death of Socrates,” Auletes insisted, his face flushing with the color of conviction. “Alexander—not some effete Athenian—kept the Greek world alive!”
“I see, Father,” Kleopatra said. Then she confessed what else she had heard: The Ptolemies were inbred freaks who misunderstood Pharaoh’s custom of calling his wife Sister, and began the shocking tradition of marrying sibling to sibling. “The damned Egyptians are ignorant of their own history,” the king retorted, for the great Ptolemy, a historian himself, would not have made such a mistake. But Auletes did not seem hurt by what his subjects said about him, and it made Kleopatra wonder whether her father possessed enough pride. She had just begun to read the books of history Ptolemy had written, and she was sure, from his portraits of both himself and of Alexander, that they would never have tolerated the abuse her father’s subjects heaped upon his character.
Some said that the Ptolemies made up the story of the eagle to impress upon their subjects their direct lineage from Alexander, but Kleopatra did not believe it. The busts of King Philip and the busts of Ptolemy I all demonstrated the identical nose—the one that now presented itself on both her and her father.
Auletes was so pleased with the conviction with which Kleopatra told the story of the eagle that he made her repeat it for his guests. Kleopatra hoped she would be asked to perform today, for she had heard the visitor was a Roman. Like her father, she loved showing off for Romans, because they were less educated than Greeks and easier to impress. Kleopatra always paid dearly for her bright moments at court, however, when later, Berenike would find her in the nursery, and when no one was looking, twist her arm and call her a dirty Roman-lover. Now Kleopatra tried to sneak a furtive stare at her sister to gauge her humor.
Fourteen and sullen, Berenike sat next to Thea, sweaty in the corset Thea had cajoled her to wear, sucking on a lock of hair as if she were still a child. Her other hand stroked the dagger she kept sheathed beneath her long dress. Berenike preferred the short, ungirdled chiton of young Greek children, but Thea and Auletes, already cognizant of Berenike’s value in the matrimonial market, no longer allowed her to dress like an unruly feral thing. According to tradition, the eldest daughter should be married to her brother, but the new baby, Ptolemy XIII, was still in the cradle. With the present queen only one and twenty, it did not seem intelligent to let the beautiful Berenike linger unmarried. “You must exhibit the qualities of a young queen,” Thea told her repeatedly. “I am a queen,” she would reply as if in a dream, and to Auletes’ annoyance. “I am Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons.”
Meleager, the eunuch courtier, adviser to the royals, and tutor to the two princesses, sat next to Berenike, though one step lower, according to custom and protocol. A tall, smooth-skinned man in his forties, he had yet to succumb to the paunch eunuchs experienced in middle age. He was said to keep himself fit by dieting with religious fervor, exercising daily at the gymnasium, and engaging in orgiastic sex. He was officious, princely, and cunning, and Kleopatra did not like him. She sensed his condescension to her father, whom Meleager, punctilious about dynastic history, never forgave for being a bastard king.
Auletes briefed the family on the day’s visitor, a Roman who had been, in younger days, a high-ranking officer in Crassus’s army. Now he conducted diplomatic affairs and had a small import business. “I am told he wants my permission to pass through Egyptian waters with spices from the Cinnamon Country without paying the usual duties,” Auletes chuckled. “It is quite possible that I shall grant him this privilege, but I suspect there will be a price for him to pay.”
Kleopatra understood his meaning; the king often cultivated visitors begging favor for his intelligence operations in Rome. The Romans had trampled over every one of Egypt’s neighboring countries, invading their lands, installing a fat Roman governor, and collecting outrageous taxes to be sent back to Rome. To avoid this unfortunate situation, Auletes depended on a network of spies in Rome. He apprehended what the Romans might want from his rich land and his ancient treasury, and furnished it immediately, before they had to send an army to demand it.
“It is far easier to bribe a rich man than a poor one,” the king continued, tutoring his family. “The rich are of a character to be motivated by money. The poor never lose their bitterness and are more wont to betray. The wealthy have much to lose and restrain such emotion, making them more levelheaded and reliable.”
“And what might this Roman do for us?” Thea asked with the sharp tongue of a woman who had grown confident of her stature.
“My dear wife, are we not under threat of Roman annexation? Has Marcus Crassus not introduced a bill into the senate that woul
d make Egypt a Roman territory? Do the Romans not wish to control our grain supply to feed their armies?” Auletes breathed deeply, weary of explaining to his young wife his propitiatory policies toward Rome. “Have the Romans not subjugated every neighboring country, including Syria? Our guest today is a diplomat. Need I say more?”
“We are the descendants of Alexander,” Thea said, her face upturned, showing the king her nostrils. “Why do we not use our silver and our gold to raise an army to confront the Romans? Why must we always cower before Rome?”
Kleopatra glared at her stepmother, wondering how she could think she possessed the wisdom to challenge the king.
“You are young and naive, my dear Thea. The Romans fight because they believe it is their right to dominate the world. Paid mercenaries will never defeat such men. The gods, at present, are with Rome. Let us not challenge the gods, but negotiate successfully with those they have chosen.”
“The blood of Alexander is sluggish in your veins, my king, while it quickens in mine,” Thea said defiantly.
“My dear, your Greek pride could cost us the throne. Do you really believe the Romans will lay down their desire to control Egypt because of our illustrious heritage? We are in trouble. Before he died, our predecessor—our half-witted half brother—wrote a will leaving our entire nation to Rome. The Roman senate has repeatedly tried to use it as a claim on our kingdom.”
“And the citizens pulled him out of the gymnasium and slit his throat,” Thea yelled. “So much for Roman protection! Roman alliance!”
Auletes raised his hands, fingers shaking like bangles. “The people slit his throat because the corrupt thing was a menace. And thank the gods they did, for had they not, I would not be king, and you, my beautiful wife, would certainly not be queen.”
“Majesty,” Meleager interrupted. “The murder was an act of rebellion against Rome. Whether Greek or Egyptian, the Alexandrian people have a notorious distaste for negotiation with Rome. The rumor that you are going to allow Rome to annex Egypt has spread to every quarter of the city, and everywhere there is unrest. The Greek citizens do not wish to placate Rome, nor do the Egyptians. Perhaps the queen is not entirely wrong. Perhaps it is time to challenge the Romans.”
“Have you not heard the proverb, eunuch? “Whom the Romans wish to make kings they make kings. Whom they will to depose, they depose.’ I do not wish to be deposed,” Auletes said hotly. “I do not wish to be exiled to some ugly black rock in the Aegean while a greedy Roman governor gets rich on the treasures of my ancestors. I like my head very much. I enjoy my fat body very much. And I do not wish for the two to be separated. How they would miss each other!” Auletes rolled his eyes to the back of his head as if undergoing decapitation.
In complete defiance of court protocol, Kleopatra jumped into his lap. He scooped her into his arms and hugged her close to him, brushing her long hair away from her face. He continued, “In the year before this little princess was born, the Roman army crucified the six thousand rebellious slaves who followed Spartacus the Gladiator. They hung the bodies on either side of the Appian Way, lining all three hundred miles of the road. I believe they left them there for six months as a warning. That is Roman vengeance, my dear Thea. I do not wish to see your pretty face rotting on a cross. And I do not wish to see myself hanging next to you.”
“May I remind you, Your Majesty, that we are not slaves,” said Thea.
“Father, tell us the story of Spartacus,” Kleopatra requested, knowing that it made Thea queasy.
“Not again,” cried Thea, grabbing her stomach, making Kleopatra wonder if she was pregnant again, having already given birth to two brats, one after the other, the girl Arsinoe, who was two, and the infant boy.
“Six months, my dear Thea,” Auletes said pointedly. “Have you seen a body six months after death? A body that has not been embalmed in the Egyptian way but simply left unattended? It’s not a pretty sight.”
“Will you tell us the story, Father?” the princess asked again.
“I shall let our guest tell the tale, Kleopatra, for it is said that he fought with Crassus against the slave army.”
She gasped, eagerly returning to her dais. To the unfettered imagination of the princess, these bestial Romans were unspeakably glamorous.
Kleopatra caught the Roman sneaking a coy smile at her when the king was not looking. She liked having his attention and smiled back. He was robust like all prosperous Romans and wore the thin purple stripe of the equestrian class on his toga. Not a patrician, Auletes had said, but just as rich. Like the rest of his countrymen, his demeanor at a foreign court, though solicitous, had the usual underlying Roman superiority.
“My daughter is most anxious to hear your tales of vanquishing the slave Spartacus,” said the king in a merry tone.
“Your Majesty, I come on urgent business that must be discussed before we engage in pleasurable storytelling.”
“Oh yes, my advisers have briefed me on your request to abolish the import duties on cinnamon. I am certain we can work out a reasonable and mutually beneficial arrangement,” replied Auletes.
“Sire, I have in my breast pocket a letter to you from Pompey.”
“From the great general himself?” asked the king, sitting straighter in his throne.
“I have just seen Pompey in Judaea. He is at war with the Jews and requests that you demonstrate your friendship by sending him the supplies and soldiers he requires to subdue that stubborn nation of rebels.” The Roman handed the king a letter, which Auletes read to himself. Kleopatra noticed that Thea was squeezing her earlobe repeatedly, a habit she had when she was anxious. The king and queen had already fought much over Auletes’ friendship with Pompey after Auletes had given a banquet in Pompey’s honor the year before. Auletes had fretted over every detail of the meal, demanding that each of the one thousand guests’ gold cups be replaced with a fresh vessel at all seven courses. “How can you celebrate his victory over Syria?” Thea had demanded. “Over our own blood?”
“So that he will think twice about spilling our blood, my dear queen, yours and mine and that of our precious children,” the king had replied.
Auletes folded the letter in his hand. “Nurturing my friendship with Pompey the Great is of utmost importance to me. You may reply that I am sending immediately the amount he requests in gold and an army of eight thousand.”
“But my dear,” Thea began, her face at once full of apology and demand, “should we not consider the ramifications from our own citizens before we leap to aid our friend Pompey? This is a sensitive issue. The Palestine was once an Egyptian territory. You see, sir,” she said, turning to the Roman, “the Alexandrians have dreadful ways of showing displeasure with the ruling family. A riot, a knife across the throat when one least expects it. I am sure you understand that we must act with their good opinion in mind.”
Kleopatra rocked in her seat until she could no longer keep quiet. Who did Thea think she was to openly contradict her father? She knew it was not her place to speak, but she would defend her father anyway. “Madam, Pompey is the most important man in the world. Isn’t it an honor that he wants Father to be his friend?”
“At least one person in my family understands both politics and friendship,” said the king, looking accusingly at Thea and Meleager. “Even a nine-year-old sees that one must show allegiance to the man who subdued the pirates of the Mediterranean and vanquished the mighty king Mithridates of Pontus.”
The Roman saluted the king. “That is what Pompey so hoped, Your Majesty. That the great King Ptolemy would acknowledge his many services to the nations of the Mediterranean and would repay him with a pledge of support.”
Kleopatra knew how much her father worried about what the Romans thought of him. She wanted her father to bask in the praise of the great man Pompey without further interference from the pompous eunuch and her ignorant stepmother. Before Meleager or Thea could rebuke him, she said, “Now, sir, will you please tell us the story of Spartacus? Were you re
ally there? Did you see him? Did you meet him?”
“Yes, yes, let us proceed with the story of the wicked slave,” said the king. “Tell us, good man, what did he look like?”
The Roman, too, seemed anxious to end the business at hand while he still had the king’s guarantee. He stood and breathed deeply, the air pulling him to his full height. “Spartacus was tall. Strong. Proud. An Ionian, some say. Others say he was a Thracian, and others, a Macedonian.”
Kleopatra beamed. “Father, might Spartacus have been our cousin?”
Berenike grimaced, her first animated expression of the morning; Thea and Meleager laughed condescendingly. Kleopatra was wounded by their insincere tone, by their derision at her mistake, and she despised them the more. “Spartacus was no ordinary slave,” she shouted much too loudly, sinking into her throne.
The Roman rescued her from embarrassment, sweeping his toga into his left arm, leaving his right to gesture, telling the story as if to her alone. “We had the rebel slave army outnumbered ten to one, trapped in the mountains of Lucania. Crassus demanded surrender, but the thieves came crashing through our lines, ready to fight and to die like gladiators.
“It was then that I spotted him—as tall as a Titan, and as bold as Poseidon. With a chest like the side of a cliff and an arm like Zeus,” he said. “The demon had two of my young officers pinned against a rock. He pushed one of them into the other and slew the both of them with a single thrust of his sword.”
The princess held her breath while he continued.
“Three of my men attacked him, striking him in the chest, slashing his knees. But the monster began to fight again, flashing his sword about though he could hardly move from his spot.” The Roman lifted one side of his toga daintily to reveal a jagged scar on his thigh, a white lightning bolt against his weathered skin. “He cut me here,” he said indignantly.